Beautiful Dreamer
by banannabread
Summary: A father scours the Commonwealth for his missing son. The leaves dry out as summer comes, the trees shrink, and the land dies again like it did two hundred years ago. Nate doesn't recognize Massachusetts anymore.
1. Out of Time, I

**This is a very loose novelization, with regular canon divergence that ensues early on. The messy beginning chapters have been thoroughly edited, but please excuse any errors I miss. Title is based on a lovely song from Bing Crosby by the same name. I hope you enjoy reading!**

* * *

Preston found Nate sitting under the _ Sanctuary Hills _sign with his head on his knees and a deep frown on his face. He was a kind man, Preston Garvey, kind enough to stick around and offer him a hand. Nate had helped him and the other Quincy survivors out of Concord, and Preston's hovering indicated that he felt he owed Nate.

Nate's help had been reluctant at best. He needed help himself, and if it weren't for Mama Murphy telling him about a distant city where he might find his son then Nate would have left them in Concord. The other survivors knew it in the way they frowned at his back and avoided him at the edge of town. Kind Preston didn't blame him for looking out for himself.

Concord wasn't far from Sanctuary Hills, and Nate hadn't left for long. The vault he recently emerged from, Vault 111, sat unassumingly on the hill overlooking the newcomers. He wanted to go back inside. A setting dread told Nate it wasn't time to go home yet.

Preston offered his comfort and an ear to listen to his troubles. Nate's situation was difficult to explain. Someone had woken him up from a long cryosleep and taken his son, and Nate only hoped to find them in Diamond City. It seemed like he ripped the story from a comic book—Nate was aware of the absurdity, and Preston would have doubted him if he didn't have the vault suit and Pip-Boy to match. He warned Nate that the Commonwealth was a dangerous place for a vault dweller. Nate already knew. He had seen monsters on the way to Concord, but his mind wasn't changed.

Preston didn't try to convince him. He knew Nate's mind was made up. "Keep alive out there," he encouraged instead, and he gave Nate his laser musket as a parting gift.

The open road was harsh for someone like Nate, freshly picked from a vault. He wasn't a stranger to combat, but he felt like he was learning to use a gun for the first time. Nate left with a few supplies that ran out quickly, leaving him to subside on whatever he scrounged. He learned to live in the dirt and take everything not nailed down, surviving out of Sanctuary Hills by the grit of his teeth. His radio picked up on a station from Diamond City, and he listened to Travis when he slept at night, filling his dreams with hope of the great green jewel.

Knowing that he wasn't the only one left alive after the bombs fell was enough for him. Knowing Shaun was out there somewhere was what got him up every morning. Nate was horrified by what the world had become, but his horror felt hollow, as if it belonged to someone else. The way Mama Murphy talked about Diamond City lead him to believe there was hope beyond the wilds up north. Codsworth told him two hundred years had passed while he had slept, and Nate thought two hundred years was more than enough time for civilization to pick itself back up. He got comfortable with his gun, comfortable like he never left his service. He killed his first wasteland monster by a road in Lexington. When he came close, he realized it was just a mutated stag with crazy eyes.

The roads he followed lead to Cambridge, according to his Pip-Boy. Nate found it hard to face a city that was once more than ruins. A skirmish occurred at the city entrance: some raiders were losing a fight against feral, irradiated zombies that looked suspiciously like his old neighbors. Nate skirted them, but the center of Cambridge wasn't in better shape. More zombies (Nate didn't know what else to call them) had overrun the streets, fighting off the last of the raiders. Nate had no way of knowing they were raiders, but he didn't rush in to help them. He had learned quick to keep to himself, as most people in the wasteland wouldn't hesitate to turn their guns on him if they thought they could scavenge anything good from his corpse.

After picking off the raiders, they headed farther into Cambridge. Nate picked out the sound of gunfire. It was loud enough to draw attention for miles, but Nate would have avoided the area if it wasn't in the way. He had to pass by to leave Cambridge and continue on, so he stayed low and tried to sneak by. The noise became nearly deafening the closer Nate got. It sounded like laser weaponry.

Against his own reservations, Nate's curiosity got the better of him. He climbed an adjacent apartment to see into the station, the source of the commotion that had zombies coming in from all over the city. He couldn't see that well, but he recognized their lasers. An idea flashed in his mind of Nate standing up on the fire escape and raining laser terror into the zombie horde, much like Preston had been in Concord when Nate found him.

He abandoned the thought, climbing down to leave, but he was noticed by a couple zombies rounding the corner. His musket was still in his pack, but he was saved by Dogmeat. Nate had picked the dog up at the gas station down the road from Sanctuary Hills, and he kept Dogmeat along so he wouldn't go crazy by himself. Nate considered renaming him, finding 'Dogmeat' to be a vicious and ugly sort of name, but Dogmeat was a vicious sort of dog. He tore down one zombie and distracted the other long enough for Nate to run.

Whoever held the station had no reason not to gun him down. He came in as a last resort, finding all possible exits blocked off by more of the same monsters. Nate shouted to draw their attention as he barreled past the safety cones set up. Once he knew they wouldn't attack him, he turned around and added to their fire. It took Nate some time to become accustomed to Preston's gun, but it wasn't all unlike a Springfield Rifle-Musket, save for the ammunition and the rusty crank. The kick was the same, and it was just as effective at blowing through someone's torso.

It felt like hours, but they were able to clear out the zombies while working together. He noticed someone wearing Power Armor when they were in the thick of it, but he was able to catch a glance as they got their breath back. It truly was Power Armor, and Nate recognized the model: it was a full suit of T-60, the most advanced model Nate knew, and he never saw it during his service. To say he was amazed would be an understatement.

Nate smiled at the ground, bracing against his knees. A momentary vision had flitted in his mind of turning his musket on the armor's fusion core and lighting up the station. He didn't even consider the idea, but it gave him a strange rush of excitement. He was packed tightly with enough adrenaline from clearing out Cambridge.

He heard heavy footsteps above him. "We appreciate the assistance, civilian. But what's your business here?" Nate looked up: as expected, it was the man in T-60.

Nate straightened up on his feet. "Nothing," he answered indifferently.

"Evading my questions is a surefire way of getting yourself ejected from the compound, civilian. I suggest you comply with my questions." Nate deflated immediately. He tried to act cool, but he was nothing compared to this man.

Any compound with Power Armor was a compound he didn't want to be ejected from. Nate explained that he had been on his way to Diamond City when he heard gunfire in this direction. He came to investigate, got caught, and the rest was history.

"Are you a vault dweller?" His next question was surprisingly on point. Nate followed his gaze to his vault suit, realizing then how much he stood out. He would have to ditch the suit and Pip-Boy if he wanted to be inconspicuous.

Nate nodded. A woman on the stairs interrupted them. She had a quick exchange with the man in Power Armor, long enough for Nate to get his thoughts together. Another man was with her, bleeding on the front door. He painfully clutched at his side. Nate might have offered him one of his stimpaks if he wasn't shooting Nate daggers across the mall.

Nate was spoken to again. It was an apology about being so guarded, something about a failed mission. "If you want to continue pitching in, we could use an extra gun on our side."

"Sure," Nate croaked. They weren't out for his blood. That was good enough for him.

Cambridge Police Station was still fairing better than the rest of Cambridge given the circumstances. They set up a decent base with fresh water and a small munition stockpile. Light washed over his face, nearly stunning him after he grew so accustomed to the dark outside. He was nervous about staying here for too long if more zombies were on their way.

They did introductions. "I'm Paladin Danse, Brotherhood of Steel." The woman was Scribe Haylen and the injured man was Knight Rhys. Nate wasn't familiar with the Brotherhood of Steel. He didn't say as much aloud, not wanting to be taken as clueless. Paladin Danse started talking about his mission, but the words came together whenever Nate tried to listen.

He didn't notice when Danse stopped talking. He probably took pity on Nate, inviting him to rest here as thanks for giving them a hand. At Nate's polite decline, Danse instead suggested that Nate leave the station with him if he still wanted to help. He allowed Nate to scrounge around the station for extra supplies.

Knight Rhys was the angriest man Nate had yet to meet. He ducked into another room to avoid the scowling. He rummaged through their cabinets, taking water and spare energy ammo for his musket. Nate almost tripped over Dogmeat on the way out, who he had all but forgotten about. Nate patted his head begrudgingly, said a small "good boy" and trusted Dogmeat to follow.

Paladin Danse was almost comical once Nate confirmed he was set to go. He did an impressive flip with his heavy helmet, flicking it over his head garishly, and he sprouted a loud "Outstanding!" for good measure. Nate almost smiled, almost frowned.

Scribe Haylen caught Danse's elbow at the door. She wished them luck. Nate silently watched, and Haylen sent him a grin. Her expression was open and kind enough to warm him down to his toes.

They exited out the west of Cambridge. Nate lagged behind, clutching his gun and staying low. Paladin Danse trudged through the Commonwealth without the same care. He debriefed Nate over the wind. Nate only caught the end of the debriefing, a mention of a deep range transmitter. Nate's only incentive was having an escort through Cambridge. He didn't want to go out alone after seeing so many zombies in one place.

Their destination was up the hill, ArcJet Systems. Nate recognized the name from back in his day. Danse explained that ArcJet had the contract for the only transmitter strong enough to reach his superiors in Washington. If it weren't so dark Nate would have seen the sitting water over Cambridge, and from there the bridge to Diamond City, but his eyes had yet to adjust from being inside the station.

Another debriefing took place outside ArcJet. Danse spoke sternly. "Listen up. We do this clean and quiet. No heroics and by the book. Understood?"

"Sure," Nate agreed.

He didn't argue, but Danse continued on a short lecture about watching stray bullets. It was fair since Danse's armor took up an entire room. Inside the tiny halls Nate could barely see past Danse. He stayed crouching behind him with Dogmeat at their backs.

ArcJet was mostly destroyed inside. It looked no different than most places Nate wandered into these days, but Danse picked up on subtle cues suggesting they weren't the first to come through here. He grew more impatient after succeeding rooms were the same, warning Nate to be on the lookout for enemies.

Nate started. "Who? Where are they?"

He accidentally interrupted Danse, who was already announcing the room picked clean. "It appears as though the facility's automated security's already been dealt with."

"That's good," Nate thought.

"You're making a foolishly hasty assessment. Look at the evidence. There isn't a single spent ammunition casing or a drop of blood in sight." Nate frowned, unsure of what that meant. He looked around and found Danse was correct. There were several damaged Protectrons but no evidence of their perpetrators.

"Was it you?" Nate eyed Danse's energy weapons and his bulky, protective gear.

"Unfortunately, no," he sighed. "These robots were assaulted by Institute synths." Nate agreed, choosing not to ask on the same principle as before. He didn't want to seem clueless. He assumed it was a gang, Institute Synths, perhaps enemies with the Brotherhood of Steel. These names sounded ridiculous to Nate.

They folded into a larger room. The engine room, Danse called out, and Nate realized where he heard the name ArcJet from. The engine above them, the XMB booster engine, was a nuclear-powered rocket. Nate remembered watching a press conference on TV about it. Nate wasn't a rocket scientist, but he thought it was pretty cool.

The staircase lead off at the top, preventing them from continuing, and the elevator was out of power. Danse trekked to the bottom of the stairs. "See if you can find any way to get that elevator running. I'm going to reconnoiter the area." Nate briefly looked around but he just saw ash and dust particles, nothing left to reconnoiter. Nate wouldn't get in Danse's way.

The elevator wasn't powered because the entire facility was out of power. Nate snooped around the side room. The generator was in the back, as was a heap of garbage and a holotape, but Nate didn't glance twice once he saw the generator. It was connected to an old terminal. Nate wasn't good with computers, never had been, so it took him a while to start the power up again.

He turned away to report his success to Danse when he finally noticed the swarm of enemies that descended from upstairs. The side room was sanctioned off with a tall glass wall for viewing the rocket, but beyond the glass Nate only saw lasers and smoke. He couldn't see Danse, as hulking a figure he was in Power Armor, and he assumed Institute Synths had gotten to him.

Power had been distributed across the entire facility, including the giant rocket engine. Nate realized he was standing directly by a large control panel. If he was discovered, he would surely be dead, and that made Nate's decision. He flicked the giant switch on the wall. The doors sealed behind Dogmeat, and they both watched the engine heat up and ascend a slow countdown. After the initial explosion of the rocket engine, a second explosion followed, that being from the Power Armor's fusion core.

Nate held his breath. The engine room was long and empty, and he saw nothing outside that survived the blast. His eyes burned from watching the engine head-on. Nate might still survive this trip, but he couldn't say the same for Danse.

He found Paladin Danse buried under other bodies. Unfortunately, his Power Armor was unsalvageable. The frame was torched and each discarded piece of T-60 Nate found was glued together. Institute Synths weren't a brand of raiders like Nate assumed, but strange men with wires pouring from their stomachs. The bodies with the best faces were hollow past their skulls. Danse was in two, indistinguishable apart from his armor.

"These are… robots?" Nate was to blame for not asking when he had the chance. Preston mentioned nothing about evil robots roaming the Commonwealth.

The sun was rising when he and Dogmeat emerged outside. It felt like minutes had passed, not hours, but Nate couldn't argue with the morning. Now he could clearly see the bridge on the water, and beyond it, the promise of Diamond City.

He sat near a dying grove with a hand on his brow. "Look out there, boy," he cooed quietly. The sun danced on the water delightfully. After all this time, the world was still pretty, but it was probably his good mood that saw things rose-tinted. "So that's it. Cross the bridge, and then…" His Pip-Boy confirmed that they were close to Boston.

Nate dug into his pack and brought out some Pork n' Beans. They just returned from a gruesome adventure, but Nate wanted breakfast before he headed on after Shaun. He wondered what they'd find there. His son, hopefully, but he had great expectations for however civilization had carried on. He was almost frightened that he was told a lie, that Boston would be empty once they arrived.

"Guess we'll see soon," he muttered. "I'm coming, Shaun."


	2. Out of Time, II

**Update: Fixed an upload problem. **

* * *

He packed up and crossed the bridge after breakfast.

Nate wasn't disappointed. He found people in Diamond City, craned his neck to catch them in the stands and clutter in the market. They were at leisure, doing their hair or catching up on the paper, tilling flourishing fields against the Wall. It wasn't paradise, but compared to the rest of the Commonwealth it could have been.

Then Nate stood there, taking it in, and the city ebbed away his awe. The city was dirty, the people were dirty with unhappy faces and the stench in the air was the same as outside. Diamond City was packed too tight for comfort. Nate recognized the homeless on the street, gathered like vultures on the steps of the church. He shouldn't feel as crestfallen as he did. Maybe he hoped for the same green lawns and picket fences back at home.

A woman passed him. Nate met her outside, and she surely gave him her name but he rarely listened to anything anyone said. He heard her name again when a young girl—her daughter, Nate assumed, or sister—greeted her by the gate. Nate and Dogmeat stayed back.

The young girl was preaching on an upturned box, peddling the local news to anyone who passed. A sign read Publick Occurrences above their front door. Piper, Nate recalled, Diamond City's news reporter. She made a strong first impression. He snuck away before he could be bothered to buy a copy.

Nate stood out from the rabble in his vault suit. People noticed him in the market, but most were too busy to bother him. Nate sat down at the food stand in the middle of the market, sagging over the counter. He was lead here by the smell of something wonderful cooking, making him hungry again so soon after breakfast.

"Nan-ni shimasho-ka?" asked the robot who suddenly sprung up at the counter. Nate wasn't expecting him. He nearly fainted.

He was laughed at by the lady one stool over. "Just say 'yes.' It's the only thing he understands."

Nate bit. "Yes?" The robot slammed a bowl of freshly-made noodles on the counter. Nate hadn't had fresh food for a long time other than the stag he caught, and that meat had made him sick for a few days. Nothing had ever been so tempting than that bowl.

There was some fumbling with the payment. Nate occasionally scavenged cash from the towns he passed, and he had a neat pile of money after clearing out the homes in Concord. He tried to pay for his noodles but the robot refused his money. After attempting to pay several times the robot stalked off, so Nate presumed the bowl was free.

His disappointment was not as monumental with a full stomach. He didn't blame Diamond City for its dirt or its smell, neither did he blame the people, for Nate smelled no better. His next question was where to go from here.

Mama Murphy had given him some more advice after he traded her in Jet. She said something about "following the signs," a big neon heart. Nate didn't understand until he turned into the back alleys.

Valentine Detective Agency called out to him from a neon heart sign. It was as good as fate. Nate silently praised Mama Murphy as he passed inside.

The tiny office building was too crowded for how small it was. It might be less cozy if the cabinets were organized and stacked files weren't spilling off desks. Nate watched his feet as to not step on any important papers. A cigarette-smoke smell hung in the air but no one was smoking. Besides Nate, the only person here was a woman rifling through the drawers.

She couldn't help him. The detective who owned this agency had gone missing. Listening to her try to explain the whole fiasco made it sound like the plot of a bad mafia show—Agent Noir chasing after mob boss Skinny Malone, tracking down a poor girl taken from her home. Nate didn't have any other leads, so he agreed to find the detective.

She mentioned an old vault in Park Street Station. As a vault dweller himself, he was interested in knowing if anyone had survived the war, same as him. He didn't know how common cryotech was. It hadn't been unheard of in his day, but he knew it mostly in medical conjuncture.

Park Street Station wasn't far from Diamond City, but the subway tunnels were heavily guarded by Skinny Malone's men. The subway was dark and open, providing Nate with room to sneak past most of the guard, but Nick Valentine was sealed away behind a vault door at the end of the tunnel.

There was no sneaking past these men. Nate steadied himself behind some crates and picked off one of them with his musket. He was vastly outnumbered, which was when the element of surprise meant the most—the blast from his musket caught on a spilled oil leak, sending them up in flames. He ran by when the men were distracted and hooked his Pip-Boy into the vault door.

The sound rallied the men on either side. Dogmeat distracted the first guard in the vault, giving Nate the opportunity to duck into the halls. Navigating the vault was like navigating through a maze. It was easier to lose Skinny's guards in here, and security was spread out loosely. He didn't find any cryopods, but he discovered the place was half-built and falling apart, not at all like the vault he came from.

Valentine was held in a cell towards the end of the vault. Stairs lead to a balcony, an elevated office, and a goon taunting Valentine on the other side of his cell. Nate caught his name during their exchange. Nick Valentine had a smart mouth, but it wasn't enough to escape on his own.

Nate sniped the man while his back was turned to Nate. It was reckless, but making it this far in a heavily guarded vault had turned him hasty to get out alive. He ran up the stairs with Dogmeat at his heels, and Valentine's voice called from behind the door: "I don't know who you are but we got about three minutes before they realize muscles-for-brains ain't coming back. Get this door open!"

Valentine's cell was the previous Overseer's office. As such, the room was locked with special security. The door wouldn't budge on his side. Valentine drew his attention to the terminal on the wall, but it was secured behind a password.

"Don't know the code!"

Valentine attempted to guide him through the process of hacking the terminal. "If you get locked out of the terminal, don't worry. The system will reset itself. Just give it a minute."

"Okay, alright," he murmured, drawing his gun. He shot the terminal with a two-crank blast.

By another round of fate, the door popped open once the terminal was busted. Valentine guffawed at their success. Back at the agency, he hadn't been provided with a description of what to look for besides his strange gettup, so Nate checked Valentine's clothes first. The worn trenchcoat was just as she said. Nate impatiently rushed Valentine out of his cell without hearing the rest of what he had to say.

Nate hardly looked at the detective, focused solely on keeping them alive and escaping Vault 114. The noises from the Overseer's office had raised an alarm to the rest of the men in the last halls. Valentine tried shouting questions at him whenever they stalled at a corner or waited in shadows for others to pass, which Nate answered to his ability. The time wasn't right for conversation between hiding from the scrambling security. Nick eventually gave up and begrudgingly settled into his company.

They made it past the guards without trouble, but Skinny Malone waited for them at the last breadth of Vault 114. Skinny Malone wasn't skinny at all—Nick had commented that the name was ironic, for that man was as fat as Diamond City's mayor and his face was as soft. A girl was on his arm. Nate had been given her description back at the agency, so he recognized Darla, the supposedly kidnapped girl Nick had been tracking. She looked nastier than Nate had been led to believe. The bat in her hands was unmistakably bloody.

Valentine and Skinny Malone fell into a heated argument that told Nate they had history. Their voices reverberated so loudly in the walls, making them sound like the same man with the same bad Boston accent. He squinted over Skinny's shoulder: they were back where they started, he could see the subway tunnels and the way he came from, but Skinny Malone wouldn't let them pass.

Nate interrupted their dramatic back-and-forth. "How do you know this guy, Nick?" He kept his eyes on the tunnels.

Nick, his hands raised in surrender, turned back to look at Nate. "Skinny and I are old pals. We used to run together. What can I say? Everyone's liable to a mistake or two in their lifetime. I think it's high time he admits he made a mistake skipping town with his two-timing dame."

He barked, "Hey, don't go talking bad about my Darla. Who's running this show, here? You got something to say you say it to me." Nate was squared with a hard look from Skinny Malone.

"I'm just bringing Nick home," he excused.

He shrugged his gaze to the side. Four more men were backing up Skinny, and Darla herself looked eager to get into a fight. She sneered when she caught Nate looking. Nate hesitated, a bad idea growing in his head. He didn't see Valentine's and Skinny's argument getting anywhere, and he didn't have the patience to wait around until they were both gunned down.

He took aim at Darla's head. With three full cranks, the reverb was awful, but Nate swore her head almost departed from her body. Skinny and Nick both were quiet as the dead. Everyone was stunned into silence, Skinny's shoes ruined.

Valentine was one to roll with the punches. "My friend here just did you a favor, Skinny." He quipped about Skinny always having a bad taste for women. "We'd better get out of here." The last part was for Nate. Skinny Malone's shock wouldn't last forever.

Nate and Nick Valentine fled from Vault 114 and escaped through the subway tunnels. Nick knew a back way out. Skinny's men took potshots at their backs, but by the time Nate heard Skinny start they were already too far to catch up to. Skinny howled like a madman, but his screams didn't permeate the surface.

They stopped running a few blocks away from Boston Common, ducking into an alley for respite. Nate pressed his hands on his chest, feeling it ache with strain after every breath. It was dark now, Nate squinting until his eyes adjusted.

"Look at that Commonwealth sky. Never thought something so naturally ominous could end up looking so inviting." Nick spoke like he hadn't seen the sky in years. He couldn't blame Nick; he had been in the subway for an hour, hardly, and already forgot how bright the stars were.

The ache subsided. Both of them were reeling in the excitement of narrowly escaping with their lives. Surprisingly, Nick wasn't angry. Nate didn't know why he was surprised—Nate had saved this man, but he got the impression Nick didn't like him very much. It might be the detective's suspicious nature. Nate knew he looked like a grizzly mercenary, especially after he handled Skinny and Darla. Valentine didn't say anything about it, not yet.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his trenchcoat. Grey Tortoise, Nate recognized, still squinting in the dark. Nick held a flip lighter up to the cigarette hanging on his lip, drawing light on his face. Every extension of his thick and wired face highlighted in the glow. Nate flinched, startled by the sight, Nick's face the same as the Institute synths in ArcJet.

He shouted, "What are you?" His voice echoed down the streets of Boston Common.

Valentine also flinched. "You didn't notice this mug already?" He approached Nate disbelievingly, bringing the hard edges of his face to greater detail.

Nate wasn't paying attention in the vault. Even during the standoff with Skinny, he was too focused on getting out. Nate wordlessly frowned, saying nothing but staring. The hand that held Nick's cigarette was more metal than skin.

"Aren't you dull, doll. After the stunt you pulled back there…" Nick trailed off.

Nick was clearly in thought, but Nate felt the urge to explain himself. "Look, Skinny needed a reason to let us go. He wouldn't budge so long as he thought you wanted to take Darla. No Darla, no reason to hold you hostage."

"All the more reason to kill us," Nick laughed bitterly. Nate had considered that possibility, but he banked on the hope that Nick and Skinny had once been friends. They bickered like old pals. If Skinny was prepared to kill Nick, why lock him up in the Overseer's office?

"Well, I've never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth." As the saying goes, Nick said. He changed the subject. "Now the only thing left is what brought you all the way to save an old private eye, because I won't believe my luck's that good."

"What are you?" Nate repeated.

"Told you. I'm a detective." He refused to elaborate until Nate answered his questions. It was fair, besides the fact that Nate had rescued him. But he needed Nick's help.

"Is it so hard to believe I saved you out of goodwill?" Nate asked genuinely. Valentine laughed.

"I appreciate it, but a good Samaritan in these parts is liable to end up on the wrong side of a loaded gun. Trust me, I know." He asked Nate how he found Nick in Vault 114. Once Nate mentioned Ellie it seemed most of Nick's tension drained, and he was a little more trusting.

Next, Nick asked if he was a merc. Nate shook his head. "I don't want your money. I want you to help me find someone."

Nick straightened up. Just the talk of a case called his attention. "Let's hear it."

Nate gave Valentine the brief rundown of his story, ending with his son, Shaun, being kidnapped from his cryopod. It was a convoluted and packed story and they weren't in the safest area, but Nick listened until Nate was done.

"Let's continue this in Diamond City," Nick concluded. He wanted to go over the details Nate omitted—his kidnapper's face, his missing son.

Nate was relieved. In just the span of a short week he felt close to finding Shaun. He stayed back for a moment, glancing up towards the sky. The stars were clearer, more in the sky than once was before, the sky itself clearer and deeper blue. Nate quickly caught up to Nick and went to Diamond City with him, Dogmeat following at his side.


	3. Dangerous Minds

Nate spent his night at the Valentine Detective Agency, filling out the rest of his case to Nick and Ellie. He never expected telling someone his story would be so therapeutic. Valentine was a good detective, finding a lead on Nate's kidnapper after a detailed description. Nate wasn't sure who to thank: Valentine, or Mama Murphy's prophetic guidance.

He paid Piper a visit after he left the agency. She asked him for an interview, and he felt more confident about sharing his story for her paper. The interview that entailed wasn't as bad as he imagined it would be. She spoke kindly, always understanding about each of his answers, and her home was warm.

Piper's reaction was big when he told her about the vault's cryo experiment. She floundered, calling him the "Man out of Time," to which Nate commented that it made a good headline. "They froze you before the bombs fell? That's incredible!"

Technically they froze him when the bombs were still falling, but Nate wasn't one to fuss over the details.

Nate had ditched his jumpsuit to look a little less like a pre-war antique, but Piper told him he still stood out from the regular wastelander. Something in his eyes, she said, then moved on to describe him as a fish out of water. He hoped the rest of the Commonwealth wasn't as observant.

Nick was waiting outside Publick Occurrences, standing by until Nate was ready to check out an apartment in Diamond City. He believed their new lead, a mercenary by the name of Conrad Kellogg, had stayed here with a young boy. Nick had grabbed the key to Kellogg's apartment while Nate saw Piper for an interview. He greeted them warmly as Piper joined them outside.

"Glad to see you both acquainted," he observed.

"Nick, Piper offered to come with us. We can use an extra set of eyes." Nate didn't know what they would find in Kellogg's apartment. It was abandoned, so Nate wasn't expecting Shaun to be there, but he didn't want to miss any clues.

Kellogg left behind a trail of cigars and Gwinnett stout. It was enough for Dogmeat to pick up a trail. The cigar was still warm, which puzzled them all, suggesting that the apartment wasn't as abandoned as they thought. Piper only agreed to help snoop around the apartment, but she offered to come along with them. With her and Nick, Nate was ready to track down Kellogg.

Dogmeat bounded out of Diamond City on a single whiff of San Francisco Sunlights, leading them on a chase through the Commonwealth. They went west, finding Gwinnett stouts and more cigars to keep the trail hot, bloody rags and a disarmed Assaultron. Kellogg created enough destruction for the four to follow. The trail ended at a ruined command center previously owned by the USAF.

The front entrance was blocked off and the back was guarded by turrets. Nate had yet to learn about the synths inside. He wouldn't have stood a chance if he came here alone. He checked to see if the other two were still coming, but Piper and Nick hadn't left, waiting for him to lead forward.

He planned to continue, but he had another one of his ideas half baked in his head. He gestured to his companions, letting them in on his plan.

* * *

After a success at Fort Hagen, Nick directed them to a town called Goodneighbor. Goodneighbor was around the corner from Boston Common and across a super mutant camp—it wasn't an easy town to get to.

Goodneighbor was dirtier than Diamond City. The smell here was noxious, as if _ several _ things had died, and the trip wasn't easy. He entered Goodneighbor first while Piper and Nick lagged outside the gate. Nate wouldn't have ever come here if Nick hadn't insisted he had friends in Goodneighbor who could help them. Unfortunately for Nate, Kellogg hadn't lead him to his son.

The first person he met was a frowning man in road leathers. He stood close to the gate, so Nate disregarded him as security, but the man stopped Nate from passing. "Hold up there. First time in Goodneighbor? Can't go around here without insurance."

"No thanks," Nate smiled. Valentine caught up. He was more rugged than usual and one of his sleeves was missing. Nate was nursing a graze from a bullet on his calf. The pair of them looked a sorry sight, but they were very much alive, and that was more than could be said for most who ran into Kellogg.

No amount of exhaustion made Nick lose his sense of humor. "Any reason you're waiting around here? Someone stand you up?"

The man's frown deepened. "Tryin' that—_ bah, _ what d'ya call it? Evasive language on me?" He flipped his frown into a toothy, sharkish grin. "You're in luck, friend. I got a special insurance offer for partners of the great gumshoe here. Now you hand over everything you got in them pockets, or _ accidents _ start happening. Big, bloody _ accidents _."

"No thanks," Nate repeated. He reached for his musket.

They were interrupted before the situation escalated. Another man called down the road, voice thick and raspy. "Nick Valentine makes a rare visit to town, and you're harassing his friend here with that extortion crap?"

Nick was popular wherever he went. Nate had to hand it to him: if anyone was a good Samaritan, it was him.

Nick held up his hand. "Hancock."

"Good to see you again, Nick." The man, Hancock, came close. Nate was startled harder than he'd been when he met Nick.

Hancock had an _ ugly _ face, a face so ugly it horrified. Even Nick wasn't as bad to look at once Nate was used to him. This guy's face was downright spooky. He reminded Nate of the zombies at Cambridge. The time wasn't right for Nate to say anything, but he kept shooting Nick glances of panic.

A stabbing took place in the middle of town. Nick looked away, missing Nate's glances, his mouth set in a stern line—Nate couldn't look anywhere else. Hancock sat on his knees with blood on his coat. Nate felt like he had seen this picture before; not the blood, but the man with a coat as distinguishable as Nick Valentine's. His chest tightened painfully. Maybe he was reminded of those zombies crouching over the raiders they killed.

Hancock straightened up. Nick still wasn't looking. He turned to Nate instead, wiping his knife on his jeans. "You all right, brother?"

Nate drew his musket and fired. A three-crank shot was loud enough to get all of Goodneighbor's attention. The pain in his chest distracted him, and Nate misfired, the shot landing at Hancock's shoes. Hancock jumped back with a yell. Behind them, Piper called out for help, but they were all too distracted to listen.

Nick forced his hands on Nate's shoulders. He was trying to guide Nate away. "Why don't you sit down and take a breather?" Nate suddenly felt like a child. He breathed deeply, nodding at Nick, watched as Hancock put a hand in his coat. Nate sprang away and fired again.

Hancock dropped his inhaler. It was only Jet. Not a gun, like Nate anticipated. The townspeople weren't taking kind to Nate trying to shoot someone out in public (was what Nate thought, but Goodneighbor was no stranger to gunfights in the streets. It was the mayor that Nate shot at which earned him a bad reputation). They might start a mob.

"Hey, get back here!" Piper yelled. Nate was knocked into from behind. Their prisoner was making a run for it. Nate turned his gun around, aiming for his legs, and this time the shot landed.

Kellogg went down painfully. Nate, perhaps overzealous, cranked his musket four times when he fired. He blew through Kellogg's armor and left a deep burn above his knee. Piper already had Kellogg back under control by the time Nate lowered his musket. She tightened his bonds, helping him to his feet.

All of his excitement drained out, Nate had no more interest in trying to assault Hancock a third time. He didn't want to give their prisoner more chances to escape. "I'll take him!" Nate hoisted Kellogg over his arm to give Piper a chance to recover. Nick stayed back, making excuses to the mayor. They graciously stepped over the first body on the ground, forgotten in the commotion, and the mob cleared out.

They waited for Valentine. Piper had been to Goodneighbor before but she didn't know it well, and Nick was the one with friends here. He grabbed Nate's ear. "Being too trigger-happy is a surefire way of making a lot of enemies, especially in this town. Might wanna cool it on the gun."

"Already screwing around? How have you lasted this long?" Kellogg was in pain, too much to struggle, but he mustered the energy to taunt them. He had given them more trouble on the way to Goodneighbor. Lugging Kellogg around hadn't afforded them a break since they left Fort Hagen, but it was all Nate's idea.

"That guy was one of those _ things! _How was I supposed to know Nick was friends with them?" He looked to Piper for support, but she lowered her face, appalled and embarrassed.

"Look around you," Nick grumbled. He, too, looked suddenly uncomfortable. It took Nate a few seconds to notice the majority of the people in town were zombies, just like Hancock. None of them seemed happy at what Nate was saying.

He apologized meekly.

Nick hurried them into the Memory Den. He forced Nate into a discussion about ghouls on the way. Nate still didn't quite understand, but he was distracted by the cold. The sun fell early in the evening, and the air turned his fingers to ice. It was warmer inside.

The memory loungers fascinated him. He leaned over and tried to see the people inside, but most of them were empty. His breath fogged the glass. The memory loungers reminded him of something, but he couldn't remember. An elegantly dressed woman sat at the end of the hall. Nick spoke with her, and she allowed them downstairs, making complaints about Kellogg's blood dirtying her carpet.

Nick introduced them to his friend, Doctor Amari. She lived in the Den's basement. Nick explained their situation: before storming Fort Hagen, Nate had formed a plan to take Kellogg hostage. From what he learned of Kellogg he didn't think they would get a surrender out of him. It was effectively a Plan B in the case that Shaun wasn't there. After Kellogg himself told them Nate's son was somewhere else, Piper sprang up on Kellogg from behind and the other two had tied him down. Nick had sacrificed his coat sleeve to use as rope.

Nate had not planned for Kellogg to have an entourage of synths with him, but Nate was able to clear out Fort Hagen with Piper and Nick's help.

Amari was accommodating, but less than pleased. She begrudgingly let Nate store Kellogg on her couch. "What's the meaning of this? Are you all mad?"

Kellogg grunted. "Not far from the truth, doctor."

Nate stepped up. "We need your help, doctor. I need this man's memories."

"You need to do better than that! Who is this man? And why do you need his memories?" Nate tried his best to finish Nick's explanation. Personally, Nate wanted to torture the information out of Kellogg, but Valentine insisted they bring him here. He cited that Doctor Amari could read Kellogg's mind and tell them where Shaun was.

Doctor Amari was sympathetic when Nate mentioned his son. "Normally, we only allow clients to experience their own memories. _ Consenting _clients. I wouldn't even know where to start searching for the information you need." But she didn't write it off as impossible.

"I know it's asking for a miracle, Amari, but this man has inside knowledge of the Institute in his noggin. The biggest scientific secret of the Commonwealth. You need this, and so do we." Nick was far more convincing. Nate only heard tales of the Institute up to this point, but Kellogg had told them at gunpoint: the Institute were the ones that employed him to take Nate's son, and they were the ones who had Shaun now.

It wasn't an opportunity Amari could pass up. Against her own morals she agreed to help them. Kellogg fought with Nate as he was taken to the memory lounger, and Nate had to hold him down. He couldn't keep Kellogg still for the whole procedure. Nate knocked him out with Amari's Big Book of Science, standing back and sealing him behind the glass.

They waited around for a few minutes as Amari worked. She encountered early trouble. "This is strange. I've never seen a brain work like this before. These patterns… I would expect to find them in someone like Mister Valentine, not with this man. Yes, so that's the medial temporal lobe…"

"What does it mean?" asked Nate.

Amari sighed. "I think I've found a lock. The Institute has one last failsafe." She looked up from her terminal to face them. "There's something here encoding all the mnemonic activity in the hippocampus. An implant. Think of it like a computer encryption. And we don't have the password."

"Been there before," Nate said, thinking back. He solved that problem with Garvey's musket. This time another solution was needed.

Nick's head seemed to be in the same place. He stepped in, as if afraid Nate would still try. "Is there anything you can do, doc?"

"I can probably bypass the encryption if you give me time. But I don't know how long it will take." There was still a possibility. Nate didn't have any other options he could think of. They had gotten this far with Kellogg. He decided to wait for her, even if it meant staying in Goodneighbor for an indeterminate amount of time.

Piper headed back to Diamond City. She had a sister to care for, and she shared Nate's dislike of Goodneighbor for different reasons. Nick left too, but he was hesitant to say goodbye. Valentine told him to stop by the agency after he had a new lead.

Outside, the mayor was giving a speech from his balcony. Nate hung back far enough to listen.

He was addressing the giant airship. Nate saw it fly over when they left Fort Hagen. The Brotherhood of Steel made a strong impression on the Commonwealth with an entrance like that. Nate doubted he had a great standing with the Brotherhood after ditching Cambridge with Danse, otherwise he might have gone to investigate the airship himself. It was massive and ominous, and the voice blowing from it had rung his ears. Nate couldn't blame Goodneighbor for being apprehensive.

Nate believed there was something charming in the way Hancock addressed them. He tossed presents of Jet and other chems down from the balcony, cheering when they cheered, yelling when they jeered. The crowd of necrotic faces gave Nate silent terror. He started to leave, looking down the block—his first stop might be to the hotel at the end of the road, or to the bar under the subway. He suddenly felt eyes burning holes in his back.

Nate turned around. Hancock leaned over the balcony, blatantly staring. It was hard to tell with his face, but Nate felt Hancock's stare more than he saw it. His chest tightened. People began emptying the street, shuffling to the bar with the same idea as he had. Nate caught a few shoves and angry, half witted remarks.

Smartly, Nate walked away.


	4. Reunions

His apprehension didn't keep him away for long. Nate was too curious, too eager to prod at the hornet's nest. He left his hotel room at night to walk the streets, eventually ending at the big house near the market.

The mayor lived in the Old State House. It was here long before Goodneighbor, called Scollay Square before the war, but the area had been a notorious red-light district. He heard that Hancock's door was open to everyone, but he still hesitated stepping in. Nate craned his neck at the entrance, trying to see the top floor. Watching the spiraling staircase for too long made him dizzy.

One of Hancock's guards turned to him sharply. "If you're gonna puke, go do it outside."

Nate promised he wouldn't puke. He walked upstairs, hands leaning on the rails, each step creaking under his shoes. The dust inside was thicker than water.

Hancock's lounge was on the top floor, crowded with junk; a litter of dirty mags on the floor, the low table cluttered with empty pill bottles and dirty needles, similar paraphernalia around Hancock's desk. Hancock was there too, standing in front of his computer. Another woman Nate didn't recognized took up a couch. She grunted loudly to signal Nate's arrival.

Hancock looked up. He was surprised, but not too surprised when he saw who it was. "There gonna be any trouble?"

Nate didn't say anything. After a silence, the woman turned to Hancock. It seemed Nate had caught them in the middle of a conversation. "I could've handled Finn."

Hancock turned away, but his attention was still on Nate. "Yeah, but it's better if people know I can still get my hands dirty. Besides, it wasn't personal. No need to torture the guy."

"Always keeping me from doing my job," she frowned.

Their conversation trailed off. Nate's silent presence on the stairs was abrasive. Nate was aware of it, but he couldn't remember what he had come up here to say. Hancock shut off his terminal. "Give us some privacy, alright?"

Surprisingly, he wasn't talking to Nate. The woman stood and left, but she hung around the opposite end of the hall, near enough to hear if trouble started.

Hancock walked around his desk and took her seat. His coat draped over the back of his sofa, as worn as the flag on his waistband. He offered Nate the other couch. Nate sat, looking around. He was unfamiliar with most of the drugs Hancock had accumulated on his table.

"Take what you want, brother. What's yours is mine—wait, no. That's the other way around." Hancock watched him closely. Nate didn't know where to start. He finally grabbed a tin of Mentats and stuffed them into his back pocket. Nate earned a nod of approval.

"Hancock," greeted Nate. His tone was amiable.

Hancock grinned. It didn't look good on his face. "The one and only. To who do I owe the pleasure, exactly?"

Nate introduced himself.

"A pleasure," Hancock repeated. "My buddy Nick told me about you. You got my sympathy. Can't be easy stepping out of your vault and seeing how everything's gone to shit. You got balls for making it all the way to my town. But it's still _ my _ town, got it? Pull another stunt like that and I won't be as forgiving."

Hancock spoke surprisingly fairly. Nate agreed, looking down at his shoes.

Hancock relaxed. Nate hadn't noticed how tense he was before—the both of them, although Nate was still tense. "Good to hear. Damn, you're downright civil when you're not trying to blow my brains out. You stay cool and you'll be a part of the neighborhood." Probably wasn't likely, given the bad impression Nate had left on Goodneighbor.

Nate tried to phrase his question carefully. "You're a ghoul?" Hancock didn't seem offended. It was hard to tell, but he sounded amused.

"That's right. Like my face? I think it gives me a sexy, king of the zombies kinda look. Big hit with the ladies." Nate believed he was lying.

"Nick told you I came from a vault?"

"I coulda guessed it myself. Most folks can tell the difference between a feral and a ghoul who's still got his brains together. Some might not act like it, but there's another story. Don't know what Nick was thinking, taking you to my town and not giving you a little warning." Nate was relieved that the mayor was so understanding, considering Nate tried to shoot him twice.

"My turn to ask the questions. You need something from me?"

Perhaps, but Nate had forgotten. Hancock tickled the back of his mind. He was reminded of something, but he couldn't remember. Talking hadn't jogged his memory as he hoped. Nate made up an excuse. "I'm going to be here for a little while. I don't know how long. I wanted to know more about Goodneighbor."

Hancock grinned. Nate felt like Hancock knew why he was really here. There was a tell behind his eyes, a glimmer of something that Nate couldn't see. His chest ached.

"You came to the right place," Hancock promised, standing up and guiding Nate to the balcony. He made his speeches from the side of the Old State House. Goodneighbor was different from above. The air was clearer, the stars closer. Nate still saw the city filth, but he was getting used to it.

Hancock pointed out the shops, the hotel, and the bar. When he moved towards the Memory Den, Nate interrupted. "I already know that place."

Hancock looked him over. Nate wasn't sure what he was searching for, if the Memory Den attracted a certain kind of person. "That's one of Goodneighbor's charms. We won't judge. Word of advice—try not to become like Connolly."

Nate nodded. He didn't know what Hancock meant by that, but he didn't ask. "You were talking up here yesterday. Did I hear you say something about the Brotherhood of Steel?"

Hancock's expression soured. "They friends of yours?"

"No, nothing like that. I never heard of them, actually," he lied. Nate and the Brotherhood of Steel were only briefly acquainted, but Nate panicked that Hancock would kick him out of town. He knew from his speech that Hancock wasn't a fan of the Brotherhood.

Hancock didn't press him, changing the subject. "Did you like my speech? I do it every once in a while. They usually like to hear about the Institute."

"The Institute," Nate echoed. They were an enigma to Nate. To the Commonwealth. Piper called them the "Boogeyman of the Commonwealth," people in Diamond City talked about their neighbors being replaced with Institute synths. Nate, who knew almost nothing, recognized the importance of the information Kellogg had in his head.

By the time they stepped back down, Nate felt guilty for trying to kill Hancock before. He was still hideous, though.

* * *

Nate's stay extended for a few days. He learned to trade in caps, but he didn't have enough caps to keep his hotel room. This lead him to take up odd jobs around town. Whitechapel Charlie needed someone to clear out a few apartments around the block, Rufus wanted a brewing machine from an abandoned taphouse to the east. Nate returned with Drinkin' Buddy in tow and instigated a party at the Rexford. Folks were crazy to get their hands on a cold beer. Later, Clair would tell him it was the most business she's seen in years.

After his success with Buddy, Daisy approached him with a job. She wanted an overdue book returned to Boston Library. They got around to talking and Nate found out she was alive from before the war. He didn't believe a ghoul could live that long, but she worked up a dream about the way life used to be. She spoke about the old world with a clearer view than even Nate remembered.

The library was more trouble than Nate expected, but he came back successful and earned himself a good amount of caps. Nate hated super mutants even more than he hated ghouls.

Hancock had a job for Nate, too. He wanted Nate to investigate a home in North End, the Pickman Gallery. Hancock was worried that the raiders in that area had gone quiet. Nate only took the job assuming he had a lot of caps coming his way, doing work for the mayor.

Nate didn't get the chance to snoop out North End. Doctor Amari called him to the Den the following morning. Nate didn't think she slept a wink since they left her with Kellogg, but Kellogg was doing better, the color back in his face and his injured leg bandaged. Amari wouldn't do this just for him, or for Shaun—she wanted Kellogg's secrets as much as he did.

Amari skipped to the point once Nate was settled. "It's ready for you. We can load both you and Mister Kellogg into the memory loungers if you want. Run your cognitive functions in parallel. It would allow you to see his memories firsthand."

The offer was tempting, but it ultimately left him uncomfortable. He politely declined. "I don't want to be in his head." Kellogg appeared serene under the glass.

Amari braved Kellogg's mind without him. She was able to see everything from her terminal. She needed some time to find the memory they were looking for, so Nate got comfortable on her sofa, in for the long haul. Kellogg's eyes didn't leave Nate. He saw a warning in them, bewaring Nate of what they might find.

Amari's expression shifted against her terminal. She looked pale, frightened at times, but Nate didn't interrupt. He couldn't imagine what Kellogg's mind must be like. He felt secure that he made the right choice.

Amari brought him news. The Institute used advanced teleportation technology to move across the Commonwealth. She saw his son in Kellogg's recent memories, but it was as Kellogg said: the Institute had Shaun. The only one who could help Nate now was a doctor who fled the Institute, for reasons unknown.

It was exactly what he hoped for. Amari warned him about the Glowing Sea. By the name alone, Nate expected a difficult journey ahead. According to Amari, Kellogg was a contractor, someone who the Institute came to for jobs, but he had never been inside the Institute himself. The runaway doctor was the only one with access to the Institute who they knew the location of. Doctor Virgil was Nate's best chance of reaching Shaun.

Nate turned to leave. Amari stopped him before he reached the door. "Wait! What are you going to do with him?"

Amari sat in her chair, expectantly looking to him for an answer. Kellogg, too, watched Nate from the memory lounger. Nate wondered what Kellogg was thinking. He had a good face for poker—Nate couldn't read him, even if he looked into Amari's terminal and peeked into his brain.

"Just let him go."

Amari balked. "You're serious?" Dogmeat growled. Even the dog was uneasy at Nate's decision.

Nate got what he wanted. Kellogg had taken his son, but killing him wouldn't bring him any closer to Shaun. The idea of taking the time to drag Kellogg outside and shoot him ultimately decided Nate, who had an appointment on the other side of the Commonwealth.

Amari looked more uncertain about letting a killer loose in her office. She had seen inside his head, so Nate figured she knew Kellogg better than he did. "Kill him if you want. I need to get to the Glowing Sea." His flippancy was seen as mercy in Kellogg's eyes. One day, Nate would be repaid.

Directions in hand, Nate skipped town. He had preparations to make.


	5. The Glowing Sea

The rest of Goodneighbor entertained a peaceful evening. With the threat of the Brotherhood looming, Hancock spent his days on edge. A visitor came to his office that evening; the bearer of more bad news.

Hancock didn't see Doctor Amari outside of the Memory Den. She came from the rain, dripping from her shoes, one of the guards trying to take her coat. Fahrenheit swiveled towards Amari like a spooked hound.

Hancock offered Amari his chair. He greeted, "Hell, didn't expect this. You alright, sister?" Amari looked the farthest thing from alright. She shivered from more than just cold. The storms this season weren't cold, anyway—with summer approaching, it was warm on cloudy days, the rainfall akin to a tropical storm.

Amari spoke in rough edges. "Something bad just walked out of Goodneighbor. Right out of my office. Have you been watching the drifters that come in?"

"I'm way ahead of you, sister." Hancock and Fahrenheit shared a look over Amari's shoulder.

Amari stammered. "It was an hour ago. I was—was seeing a patient. A mercenary with intel on the Institute." Hancock signaled for her to continue. Valentine had filled him in on Kellogg Conrad. "I found something disturbing. I think—I don't think you should let him back into town—"

"Slow down. I'm gonna need you to explain this to me nice and easy." Fahrenheit left the room. She returned with a mug of something warm. Hancock tried soothing her, hearing her story. They sent her away at the end of the day once she calmed down.

The Neighborhood Watch found Amari three days later. Her body bloated, tossed in a ditch.

Hancock came out to take a look at her. The ghouls that gathered all flocked away when they saw him, reminding Hancock of crows on a line; the day was filled with bad omens. He would give another one of his speeches today. Something uplifting, to keep a riot from springing.

"She warned us," Hancock sighed. "She found something they didn't want anyone seeing." He twitched around a tin of Mentats in his pocket.

Fahrenheit slowly nodded. "You think that's why they iced her?"

"Could be." Hancock wasn't convinced that was the entirety of it.

Fahrenheit watched him. "What are you thinking, Hancock?"

"I don't know." They both knew something they shouldn't too. Amari told them everything. The Institute must know, but Hancock and Fahrenheit weren't in Amari's state. To Hancock, the rest made sense. "I'll bet this is a warning."

* * *

Nate was full of ideas he was eager to share back at Diamond City. He went to Sanctuary Hills first, primarily for the Power Armor he left with Sturges. He had an idea to get it fixed up, but an encounter with a Deathclaw had left the frame banged up. Preston was happy to see him. Nate returned his musket, promising Preston that it served him well.

He didn't come back with Power Armor, but he brought back a goodie he saw in the vault. He remembered spotting a specialized gun in the Overseer's office: the Cryolator. Its name gave away its nature, but Nate had read up on the gun from an entry in the Overseer's terminal. The Overseer devised it with the same cryotech they used in the vault. It used specialized ammunition that Nate had no way of procuring more of, thus giving the Cryolator limited use. Nate resolved to save it for emergencies.

Nate planned to show off his find to his friends. He stopped by the agency first, but Piper was already there, saving him an extra trip. Piper and Nick huddled in the hall. They spoke in hushed voices. Nate caught his own name, but they noticed him before he had the chance to eavesdrop.

Nate smiled, taking a chair. "Nick, I got a proposal for you!"

"You should take a gal out to dinner first before popping the big question," Valentine quipped. Piper welcomed Nate with a smile. Nate made a difficult impression, but they still looked happy to see him.

Nate shared what he learned from Amari. At the end, he asked for their help. From what he knew, the Glowing Sea was nuclear ground zero, uninhabitable to the likes of him. He needed their knowledge to help him survive the journey.

They didn't hesitate. They took Nate to the market, hoarding all the anti-rad supplies they could buy. Fallon's Basement had a pristine hazard suit in stock, and she gave it to them on a discount when Nate shared what he needed it for. They loaded Nate up with enough radiation protection to take on a group of glowing ones. He probably wouldn't survive, but not because of the radiation.

He left Dogmeat with Piper and Nat. Nick wanted to come along. He had a personal stake in reaching the Institute. Nate knew that, and it was part of the reason he went back to Diamond City.

Nick gave him no shortage of warnings. "It won't be pretty. Only the regular Commonwealth fauna lives out there."

Nate didn't anticipate the journey to be easy. No matter the reason, wherever the trail lead, Nate would stop at nothing to find his son.

The days passed. Valentine pointed out the thinning trees on the hills as they approached the edge of the Glowing Sea. They waited under a bridge for Nate to change into his hazmat suit. He felt the heat on his bare back, and as they crossed under the bridge, the temperature starting rising. The Geiger counter on his Pip-Boy began making noise. Above them, the sky parted in waves.

The air boiled. He was protected from the radiation, but nothing had prepared him for the heat. He asked Nick numerous times to check that his skin hadn't melted off. He was surprised at how much managed to survive here. The worst of the Commonwealth's creatures called this place home. Nate saw more ghouls here than in Cambridge _and _Goodneighbor. They gathered around sinkholes and pits of irradiated water, sunning the day away.

Nate realized why they called it the Glowing Sea: because the sun split under layers of radiation, and the bombs peeled the Earth back to its bones. Fossilized remains of civilization jutted out on the horizon.

Valentine wore nothing but his trenchcoat and fedora. He wasn't dented by the radiation. Nate tuned the radio to pass the time. Without the music, the quiet noise of the world around them was too daunting.

Piper mentioned a cult in the center of the crater. Nate and Nick visited the crater, looking for anyone who had seen Virgil pass by. The cult she mentioned consisted of people like Nate, but with no barrier between themselves and the radiation. They called themselves the Children of Atom, dedicated to the worship of Atom.

_Adam? _asked Nate. They forgave him for his ignorance.

They almost looked like ghouls, faces thin and emaciated bodies, cheeks caved against their tongues. Nate turned to Valentine, disturbed. "I think they're dying."

Valentine shrugged. He called it natural selection.

They knew Virgil. Nick talked to Mother Isolde while Nate joined the Children at the base of the crater. They sat in a circle, inviting Nate on his knees, who felt large compared to them. He asked them how they lived here. They seemingly ignored him, answering him only with their faith in Atom.

Mother Isolde gave Nick directions to Virgil's home. He lived in a cave at the farthest corner of the Glowing Sea. A Deathclaw stalked the entrance to Virgil's cave, preventing them from continuing. It was Commonwealth equivalent of home decor, the same as posting a plastic flamingo on your front lawn.

Nate got to show off. The Cryolator emerged from his bag. He couldn't snipe the Deathclaw from here, the Cryolator built like a flamer, but Nate snuck close enough to get a few bursts off. The Deathclaw fell over, frozen solid. It wasn't dead, but Nate was too terrified to finish the job. Valentine helped him. He praised Nate for his quick-thinking.

Virgil lived in a dump. Nate didn't arrive with high expectations for the recluse in a cave, but things were worse than he thought; it was frigid, damp on the ceilings, and a rancid emanated in the back from Virgil himself. Virgil hung empty cans from the ceiling to alert him of any visitors.

He rounded the corner. A spotlight blinded Nate as the first thing he saw. He tried to explain himself, holding his arms up, but an audible relieved sigh came from the room. "You're back," said a monstrous voice. The spotlight dimmed.

Virgil was in bad shape. He was a super mutant, explaining the smell. He wasn't murderous like the other mutants Nate had encountered before, so far as he could tell. Virgil stood before them uneasily. For someone as large as Virgil to be awkward in a tiny cave, the sight was unusual.

"And you brought a friend." Virgil noticed Nick behind him. He gave Nick a once-over. Both Virgil and Valentine were odd in their own ways.

Valentine lowered his voice. "You know our new friend here?"

Nate misunderstood. "You're friends with _that?"_

Nick looked stunned. Virgil smiled dryly. Grinning twisted his face, splitting it open at the cross-section between his teeth. "You're still stupid. Good. I was wondering if the Institute would influence you too much, but it looks like there was no need to worry."

Nate earned that. "Are you Virgil?"

Virgil interrupted him impatiently. "Do you have it?" At Nate's confusion, Virgil's composure started cracking. "Don't play with me. The serum. Do you have it or not? We made a deal, my help for the serum."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I came here for information on the Institute." His response didn't make Virgil pleased. The mutant bristled. Nick said nothing, wisely hanging back.

"And I told you how to get in. The Courser chip. The molecular relay. And _you _promised to bring back my serum. So where is it?"

"Molecular relay? What chip?" And what serum?

Virgil slammed his hand on his worktable. He cursed loudly. "I don't have time for this! If you don't have what I need, get out!" He was frightening already, but seeing him angry was worse. Nate believed he could push Virgil over the edge if he persisted. He looked to Nick for help, but even Nick was lost at this turn of events.

Nate tried to bargain. "I can get you the serum. Where is it? Just tell me what you know about the Institute."

"It's _inside _the Institute! I gave you a chance to get in. How will we get another one?" Virgil tried to calm. He was willing to listen to Nate. It was a sign of his desperation. Nate's chest felt tight, the back of his throat burning. He worried it was the beginnings of radiation sickness.

"Why are you back here? Did something go wrong?" Virgil picked up his radio. His hands were large enough to hold it in his palm. "The station's been dead for weeks. I thought you got in."

"I… couldn't," Nate lied. "That molecular relay. Whole thing exploded. It was bad."

Against all odds, Virgil appeared to believe him. "That explains it. Did you knock your head? I knew I shouldn't have entrusted you with building it. I thought your friends at the Railroad would help you, but I should have known better than to think they know what they're doing."

Nate apologized. He didn't know what he was apologizing for. It would be better for him to tell Virgil the truth, but he couldn't risk angering the doctor beyond helping him. "How do we get in?"

_"Without _the relay? If that didn't work, we have one other option. But I'm not sure."

Nate grinned. "Worth a try."

Virgil told him about a sewer system that ran under C.I.T., inadvertently giving Nate the location of the Institute. From the sewers, Nate had a chance of making it directly into the Institute without the need for teleportation. The way was sealed, but Virgil gave Nate an access code on a holotape to unlock the way.

They both knew the Institute's whereabouts now. C.I.T. was a long way from the Glowing Sea, all the way back at Cambridge, but the trip wasn't as dangerous. Virgil quickly kicked them out. "Don't come back without my serum!" he yelled at their backs.

Nick tried to look around before they left. Virgil was the first person from the Institute he had met, but his humble home gave nothing away from that lifestyle. Nate left Virgil's cave with more questions than answers. He was missing something important, but he was too frightened to ask Virgil more.

They skirted around the cave. The journey out of the Glowing Sea passed in silence. Nate tried talking to Nick, but he was stubbornly quiet until they safely escaped the radiation zone.

Finally, Nick stopped Nate by a grove of dying trees. "I need to talk to you about something." He looked stern again, as if Nate had done something wrong.

"I'll get to the meat of it," Valentine said decisively. "Truth is, I just don't trust you. It's simple as that. I'm heading back to Diamond City."

"What?" Nate almost didn't believe what he was hearing. "Is this about Virgil?"

"Try looking at it from where I'm standing. I spared you the benefit of doubt for this long, but the farther we go down this road the more I don't like it. I've never seen a super mutant make so much sense and a person make so little. Something just doesn't sit right with me. Call it my detective's gut."

Nate snapped. "You don't have a gut!"

Valentine misunderstood his tone. What Nate felt was exasperation, but what Nick heard was cause for alarm. He started backing up. "Whatever you're thinking, it won't pan out."

Nate ignored him. "I can get you into the Institute! That's what you want, isn't it?"

"I'm not trying to stick myself between two evils." Valentine shook his head. He paused a few yards away.

"Nick!" Nate blustered. He looked around, back at the Glowing Sea, having nowhere else to hold his anger. He saw this all as a misunderstanding. Essentially that's what it was, a hole Nate never knew he dug for himself. He felt madder than he should, a deeper ache in his chest, apart from the usual pains. If he could, he would take Nick back to Vault 114 and leave him there to rot.

He pulled his gun. The Cryolator only skimmed Valentine's side; Nate was more surprised at himself, his anger, but Valentine had expected this. He knocked the Cryolator out of Nate's hands. It skimmed the dirt, and Nate lost it under the rushing dust. Valentine kicked him to the ground.

He pulled his gun on Nate. Nate dug into a handful of dirt, throwing dirt in Nick's face to blind him. He got back up, trying to wrestle Valentine's gun out of his grip.

Nick accidentally fired. The first bullet went up in the air, the second hitting its mark. Nate flung himself across the border of the Glowing Sea. Valentine kept shooting until he stopped moving, down on the ground with a faceful of dirt. In the end, it was quiet, over before he knew it.

Valentine put down his arm. This wasn't the first of his cases to end this way and it wouldn't be the last, but he took no pleasure in ending another man's life.

"Could have gone better." He sighed.

Something shiny protruded from the base of Nate's skull. Nick knelt down to get a better look. He dug a thin component made of metal out of Nate's head, cursing.


	6. Getting a Clue

The month that followed Amari's death was quiet. Too quiet, for Hancock's liking. Hancock built a routine: every day he set his eyes on the front gate and watched who entered, stalking the benches outside Daisy's Discounts. The townspeople knew something was going on with their mayor, but none were brave enough to say it.

Daisy leaned out of her shop. "Keep it up and you'll lose me business!" There was mirth to her voice, but she meant it. Hancock's skulking was scaring away customers.

Hancock playfully saluted her and walked away from the market. He was just in time to catch another drifter entering the gate. Hancock was set to return to his office, but he got lucky the last minute. The newcomer was exactly who he waited for.

He stepped forward. "Welcome back, brother. You check out that job for me yet?"

Hancock tested the waters. Seeing confusion, he quickly switched gears. "My bad. Saw you for someone else. Vault dweller, right? Heard some stories."

After some thought, Nate introduced himself. Hancock too, purposefully slipping his mayoral position into their conversation.

"There's stories?" asked Nate.

"Oh, sure. Guy looking for his missing kid. Some Cramsicle from pre-war. Read the paper, you'll see it." Diamond City news didn't usually make it all the way to Goodneighbor, but Hancock had_ 'View from the Vault'_ delivered.

Nate looked surprised. From the way he asked, he had never been to Diamond City. Hancock got the conversation back on track—he had a plan. "You looking for work? I got work. Free room in my house, too, if you need it. Benefits of the job."

"Thanks—"

"Take the room," Hancock interrupted. That was the saying, wasn't it? _Keep your enemies close._ Hancock liked to keep them in stabbing-range. He grabbed Nate's shoulder, steering him towards the Old State House. "It's right there. Top floor, and any of the spare beds are yours."

"Thanks," Nate repeated.

"What about that job?" Nate refused: he didn't come here for work. "Well, when you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Hancock sent Fahrenheit to trail Nate for the rest of the day. At night, he turned into Hotel Rexford. Nate acted like any other drifter who stopped at Goodneighbor for a break from their travels. This unnerved Hancock greatly.

He tried to settle at his desk, but no amount of Med-X made him less restless. "I think I'll go pay him a visit."

Fahrenheit disapproved. She was reconciling him over a game of chess. "You're high and jittery. This isn't the time."

"I'm always high. It's not that. It's those damn synth-makers. Raiders, we know 'em. Drunks, addicts, thugs, whatever. Nobody else pulls off this psychological shit like the Institute."

"So you shouldn't go," Fahrenheit reiterated. Hancock ignored her.

Rexford was quieter now that the Drinkin' Buddy buzz faded enough for Goodneighbor's regulars to be back at the Third Rail. It was still a neat gimmick to visitors, and Marowski was turning a bigger profit than Rexford had seen in a long time. He went up to the front desk. As always, he greeted everyone in his town as if they were best friends.

"Clair! Still pretty as always. Marowski giving you trouble?"

Clair grouched, but even she couldn't be mad at Hancock. One day he might even get her to smile. "Sure hope not. What can I do for you, Hancock?"

"I need a room." Clair shrugged, rummaging for a spare room key. Hancock stopped her. "I need the vault dweller's room. Where's he staying?"

Clair didn't ask him his business. "Third floor. Back of the hall. It's the first room on your right."

Hancock crept upstairs. He puffed some Jet to steel his nerves. Stepping silently to the last door of the hall, he pressed his ear to the wall, listening for any sign that someone was awake inside. He heard nothing. The door was unlocked, squealing unpleasantly when Hancock turned the doorknob. He opened a space small enough for him to slide inside.

It was too dark to see properly. His boots felt around the floor, hands reaching for the bed. Once he found it, he gathered to Nate's side. Hancock drew his knife.

Fahrenheit was right: Hancock didn't know what he was doing. It wasn't the first time he killed someone in cold blood while they slept. If anything, it brought back some good memories. He couldn't see Nate's face in the dark. It should have been easy, what he set out to do.

After a long minute, Hancock lowered his hands. He put his knife away. He couldn't do it. He was going soft.

He quietly fled the room. Hancock planned to waste himself on Mentats and pray they made him think up something smarter. Once alone, Nate opened his eyes, staring stunned up at the ceiling.

* * *

Nate came around the Old State House for work. Although Hancock talked big, he didn't actually expect Nate over. He lazed in his office with most of his weight pulled over his desk, gawking at Nate when he showed. Fahrenheit had left earlier. Hancock was so high he hardly remembered the job he'd been offering.

"Place is called Pickman Gallery," he gruffed. He nodded towards Nate's Pip-Boy. "Got a map on that thing, right?"

Nate assured him, but there was something else. "I have one condition."

Hancock stared. "Yeah?"

Nate awkwardly cleared his throat. "Come with me." He gave Hancock a plethora of halfhearted excuses. "I'm clearly out of my league. I mean, I'm _really _out of my league. I barely made it here. I need a good-looking guy to take care of me in the big, bad wasteland."

"Overt flirtation will get you everywhere," Hancock conceded. On a more serious note, he added, "Why would I tag along for the job I'm paying_ you _to do?"

"You don't have to pay me," Nate blurted. He was trying too hard to get Hancock to come with him. Even Hancock eventually noticed, high as he was. "So you get the job done for free. We could work together. As a team."

"A team," Hancock frowned.

He was trying to push Nate, see how far he would go. Nate didn't give in. "You're probably bored, aren't you? If you think about it—"

"Yeah, I got you, brother," Hancock interrupted. He would play along for now.

Nate wasn't entirely wrong. Despite the circumstances, walking out of Goodneighbor was refreshing. Surprisingly refreshing. Hancock hadn't realized the stupor he was working himself into until now. With threats from the Brotherhood _and _the Institute, Hancock had grown too paranoid, and a break from his desk was exactly what he needed.

Pickman Gallery wasn't far from Goodneighbor. Hancock didn't talk much on the way, keeping Nate in front of him, obviously untrusting. The area lent itself to the stories Hancock had heard; the uneasy quiet, the empty raider camps. Knowing this area to be a hotspot for raiders, Hancock realized why the drifters who passed through were so unnerved.

Near the pier, the Gallery didn't disappoint. It was painted with disturbing decorum. Hancock turned to Nate, gauging his reaction. Nate must be a good actor, or he was actually sick. He turned green at the mutilations and the blood on the walls.

Some of the paintings had heavy eyes or faces too sad to bear. They haunted, almost as depressing as they were horrifyingly grotesque. Hancock joked. "Wish I could say this is the most twisted thing I've ever seen, but it ranks up there. Top three?"

Nate covered his mouth. "You've seen worse than this?"

Hancock bit down on Mentats to stay focused. They went up to the third floor, hearing voices from a hole in the wall. It lead into the basement. The drop down was too far to go back from; Nate jostled his ankles on the way down, and Hancock was dumb enough to fall in after him.

They met resistance in the tunnels. Hancock took point with his shotgun. Nate's hands shook when cornered, but they made it past the odd straggling raiders.

A standoff was held on the ground floor between the man of the house and the remaining raiders. He was tidy, dressed in a pressed suit, a small blade in his hands. They were immediately noticed, instigating a fight to break out. Hancock and Nate came out of the fight unscathed. These raiders were slow and clumsy, too spooked to put up a struggle.

The man of the house thanked them personally. He stood beneath the _All-Seeing Eye_, a work of his own make, smelling of blood. When Nate asked him what had happened, his answer was this: "A very small disagreement. They objected to my hobby of collecting their heads."

They quickly left. As harrowing of an experience as it was, Nate and Hancock were relieved to be out of the basement. A back tunnel looped them around to the front of the house. Puzzled, Nate asked, "Should we do something about him?"

Hancock wasn't sure. At the end of the day, Hancock couldn't sympathize with raiders. While in thought, one last raider sprung out behind the door.

He fired close to Hancock's head. Fortunately he missed, but Hancock was stunned by the sound and the ringing in his ears. Nate pushed Hancock down as another shot was readied From the floor, Hancock retrieved his shotgun, pulling the trigger over Nate's back. Their assaulter went down in a comical mess of blood.

Nate slowly raised himself on his elbows, staring down. Hancock tried to stand, but he couldn't lift Nate off of him. Irritated, he snapped, "What? Something on my face?"

"Can't hear you," Nate spoke loudly. The sound of his shotgun had deafened Nate, leaving them in the same boat. Hancock might have laughed if Nate didn't suddenly strike him.

Hancock howled. A lesser man would have broken his jaw on Nate's punch, but ghouls had tougher skin. Nate pushed Hancock's shotgun away, punching him again. He didn't draw his own weapons.

They wrestled in the Gallery. Hancock threw Nate off, clawing at the wall, but he pulled a painting down over his head when he tried to stand. Nate took advantage of the distraction. He grabbed Hancock down by his coat, shoving him into a blank canvas. It tore on Hancock's back.

His vision blurred. Hancock wasn't good in a fistfight. "There a reason for this?" A few feet away, a man was dead. Hancock didn't want to be next.

"You tried to kill me. I saw you in my room last night!"

"Did I?" Nate punched him again. Between gritted teeth, Hancock reluctantly admitted to it. "Yeah, okay, I feel you. Could we—could we settle this like men?" He reached once again for his gun.

Nate twisted his arm. He took the gun instead, but didn't use it. Hancock slid his knife from his coat. When Nate turned back to him, Hancock swiped at his eyes, missing Nate by a breadth.

"Was this your plan? Drag me away from my town and off me?" And Hancock thought they got off to a better start compared to the last time Nate came to Goodneighbor, yet he was mistaken. He expected something like this to happen.

They were better matched when Hancock had a knife. Nate had a gun, but he didn't use it. "I'm not trying to kill you," Nate said. His underlying tone hinted that he thought he could, which Hancock found laughable. "I'm trying to send a message!"

Hancock shoved his knife through Nate's palm. "How's that for a message?" Nate cried, rocking back on his knees. His hand bled heavily. He shoved up onto his feet, running for the door. After a moment, Hancock chased after. He realized with a start that Nate had locked him in.

He heard Nate's pained breathing on the other side. A stimpak would fix him up, so Hancock didn't feel guilty. Nate called out. "There's a window in there! I'm leaving now… so stay away from me!"

"Like hell," Hancock retorted. Nate was gone by the time he crawled outside. He looked around, but it wasn't obvious where Nate had fled to. If Hancock knew what was good for him, he would heed Nate's warning and go back home.

Hancock rubbed his jaw. It ached from their fight, but a shot of Med-X would wade away the pain. His knife was covered in blood. His coat, too, all from Nate's hand. _Like a stuck pig,_ Hancock thought.

Hancock wasn't good at leaving things alone. If he had to guess, he knew where Nate was headed, and he planned to follow.


	7. Road to Freedom

As soon as Nate entered Diamond City, he was stopped by a woman and her dog. It was the dog that caught his attention: a German Shepherd who took quickly to Nate, interrupting him until he caved for some pets.

The woman stood under a sign: _ Publick Occurrences, _ Nate read, wondering where he heard it from before. She held a lit cigarette in her hands and breathed smoke into the wind. "He's a good dog," Nate greeted. When he asked, she told him the dog's name was Dogmeat. _ What a strange name for a dog, _Nate said.

She introduced herself. "He helps the local detective with cases sometimes. He's not mine, though. Dogmeat's his own man." Piper knew he was a vault dweller. She gathered it from his suit.

He asked for directions. After showing him the shops on the market, the inn behind the streets, and Diamond City's revered Wall, she pointed him towards the detective's office. "Everyone comes to see Nick for one thing or another." He didn't say what he was here for, but she didn't ask.

The agency was closed. He knocked several times, standing outside for minutes, but nobody came to the door. Nate was ready to settle in for the night. As he started to leave, he overheard a conversation that caught his attention. Two men in the alley spoke about "the Railroad" in hushed voices.

Nate had heard about the Railroad before. A secret group, like the Institute. He didn't know anything else about them, but Nate was prepared to turn to anyone for help.

He returned to Publick Occurrences. Piper was still there, holding a smaller cigarette, the stub almost at her fingertips. "What do you know about the Railroad?"

This time, she pointed him to Boston Common. Piper had never met them herself, but knew plenty: the Railroad dedicated itself to rescuing slaves and fighting the Institute. They had a mixed reputation between the Commonwealth.

Nate brightened. "So they know where the Institute is?"

"Why? Looking to join?"

"Looking for help," Nate corrected. "I'm trying to find my son."

Nate stayed the night at Diamond City. The inn was cleaner than Hotel Rexford, and Nate felt safer with the small distance put between him and Goodneighbor. The people in Dugout weren't too noisy, and the morning that followed was serene. Nate got up early.

For the third time, Nate saw Piper outside. She stood in the same place as before, holding cigarette ashes. He tried his luck. "About Dogmeat…"

With her blessing, Nate took Dogmeat. He needed the company.

The Railroad was a long shot, but Nate didn't have any other ideas. It wasn't difficult reaching Boston Common. Surprisingly, Dogmeat was ferocious against the few raiders they came across. The buildings crumbled, the Massachusetts State House a sorry sight across the plaza, but the park was relatively intact. Nate gazed fondly over the tired gazebo. Signs were hung around Frog Pond, warning visitors.

"Beware the swan," Nate read. He eyed the swan boat on the water.

He found another sign near the Tour Bot. On it: _ Follow the Freedom Trail. _The conversation he overheard mentioned the same phrase, and Nate found where the trail began. It was a paved red path that wound through Boston. It was here before the bombs fell, but Nate had never been a strong tourist.

The Freedom Trail took Nate through some of the greatest sites in Boston's history. He saw Bunker Hill over the skyline, and the Old State House across the gate into Goodneighbor. They saw Faneuil Hall, once called "The Cradle of Liberty," now taken over by super mutants. The Paul Revere house around the block was also inhabited by mutants.

After a day of hiding from super mutants, Nate and Dogmeat tiredly made their way to the end of the trail. It stopped at the Old North Church. Dogmeat growled on the porch steps, signalling danger inside.

Ferals languidly draped over the pews. They stirred when they heard Nate enter, lifting their hollowed faces towards the door. He searched for the best position to defend from, but his options were limited. The back wall had collapsed and there was no way upstairs. Nate climbed onto the bema, drawing his handgun.

He fired from above while Dogmeat distracted. Ferals were dumber, dumber than mutants and half as tough, but they were dangerous in a large group like this. They started sprinting at Nate across the church nave, but many of them tripped on the pews. Nate retreated to the back. He waited for Dogmeat, trapping the door behind them with a board under the doorknob. It wouldn't hold forever, but it gave them time to hide in the catacombs.

It reeked under the church. Nate panicked at the possibility of being trapped down here. They encountered a couple more ghouls, but the crypts eventually ended. At the last turn, Nate discovered that someone had sealed off the tunnel. A strange mechanism was built into the wall: a bronze wheel that turned when Nate pulled it.

"It spins," he realized, delighted.

Wires connected to the wheel ran behind the floor. Some of the letters had faded, but Nate made out _ The Freedom Trail _ around a button in the center, which _ clicked _ disapprovingly when Nate pressed it. After some thought, Nate rotated the wheel to spell out _ R-A-I-L-R-O-A-D. _

The floor rumbled. The wall slid back, scuffling the floor. It was loud, but Nate didn't hear any more ghouls stir from the tunnels. It was dark inside, too dark to see anything, even when Nate turned on his Pip-Boy flashlight. He stepped forward, hugging the wall.

He was blinded by light flooding into the chamber. Several people waited across the room, some of them holding guns. One woman in armored fatigues had a minigun with her, aimed at Nate. He immediately surrendered. Nate could tell this was an ambush.

Another woman stepped forward. She introduced herself as Desdemona, leader of the Railroad. She was hard-faced, cautiously examining his every move. At her signal, the others lowered their weapons. She commanded authority in a way that reminded Nate of his old drill sergeant. He was terrified of being shot, but he also didn't want to cross her.

Once assured that he was safe, strictly speaking, he gathered enough courage to step up. "I'm not your enemy. I followed the Freedom Trail for help."

Her face softened. She seemed confused, but Nate wasn't certain. "So Tom was right," she mused. The others broke into muted conversation behind her. She raised her voice when she addressed him. "What do you know about the Institute?"

"I don't know anything," Nate answered earnestly, surprised that she would ask him. "I heard a rumor in Diamond City about the Railroad. I'm trying to find the Institute."

Desdemona sat on a heavy pause. Someone else loudly entered the room, a man dressed casually and sporting a smile. He disarmed Nate's ambushers with a few jokes. Nate dropped his handgun earlier in his surrender, but he slowly picked it up and stored it in his pack.

Desdemona snapped. Nate quickly straightened up, but she wasn't looking at him. "You better tell your friend to stop hiding."

Nate followed her gaze. The only one with him was Dogmeat, but Desdemona looked unhappy. "My dog?" Before he could object, a hand brushed his shoulder from behind.

It was the last ghoul in the Commonwealth Nate wanted to see, none other than Hancock. "Guilty as charged," Hancock called out. Nate sprang away as if he'd been stabbed. He had, back at North End, but this was born of a different shock—as paranoid as he had been going west, he never noticed Hancock trailing him.

He dropped his voice. "What are you doing here?" Nate didn't know which he was more: angry, or frightened, or a little impressed.

Hancock had the gall to look nonchalant. His devil-may-care attitude evaded Nate, who held himself back from punching the ghoul again. Hancock was even packed for travel, as if he had enough time between Goodneighbor and Diamond City to grab his things. Nate was hardly surviving out in the wild.

He wasn't the only one surprised at Hancock's presence. Desdemona was frowning when Nate turned back. "The mayor of Goodneighbor?"

He stole one more glance at Hancock. The ghoul looked fine barring their earlier fight. Between the mayor and a loaded minigun, Nate wasn't sure which evil he preferred.

"What are we still doing out here?" A voice cleared. Nate noticed the man from before, still smiling. "I think we're overdoing it with the chilly welcome. Dez, you gonna let him back in or what?"

Desdemona hesitated. "You'll vouch for him, Deacon? Even if this could be a trap?"

"Even if," that man said confidently. Nate didn't understand what they meant; he hadn't met these people before in his life, but he was grateful for Deacon's support all the same. After a short debate, they welcomed Nate and his entourage to the rest of the catacombs, into their headquarters.

The Railroad HQ was a cluttered mess. Nate hoped the crypts were empty. Some had turned these decrepit stone coffins into tables and chairs and even beds, but Nate simply didn't believe in repurposing resting places of the dead. There were more Railroad members inside the HQ than the smaller group that had ambushed him, concrete walls broken open to make more space in the side tunnels. Desdemona lead them to the back where she took office.

She offered Nate a chair, but he chose to stay standing. He was vastly outnumbered here if things went badly. Nate stared down at Hancock, but Hancock expertly pretending not to notice.

Deacon spoke first, the man who had vouched for Nate. "You know, you're practically famous."

It sounded more like flattery, but Nate was already unnerved. "Sounds like I have a stalker."

"It's not like that, chief. A lot of people know about you. And, believe it or not, this isn't the first time we've met." Nate's brow furrowed. So Deacon had said before, when convincing Desdemona to let them inside.

Desdemona joined the conversation. Her expression was stern. "Deacon's telling the truth. This is the second time we've met. The first time, you stayed and gave us a hand running reconnaissance. That was six months ago. You went off the grid and we presumed you dead. Then Deacon reports seeing you in Diamond City over a month ago, and he's been watching you since"

Nate laughed. "You're not serious."

"We figured it only a matter of time before you came to see us. Clearly, you had no idea about any of this." Desdemona sighed. "That's a shame. I was hoping you could give us some insight into the Institute. Luckily, Tom already has a few running theories as to what's going on here."

Nate glanced behind her. A man crouched at his terminal, pretending to be at work, but his head snapped up whenever Nate spoke. "Running theories?" he repeated.

Desdemona called Tom over. That was the signal for the man at the terminal to come out, bounding over to the group excitedly. "Alright, see, it's not unusual for a synth to have their memories wiped out. We've wiped a few synths ourselves— "

"That's the kinds of operations we run here at the Railroad," Desdemona explained. "We free the synths from Institute captivity and give them a new life."

Tom continued. "So we know it's possible. Someone's obviously wiped your memories, man! And it can't be the first time. We've got reported sightings on you from all over the Commonwealth, but the times don't exactly match up. If I had to guess, I'd say you made it to the Institute already, _ and _I'd say they're the ones wiping your head clean. Then they send you back out, I guess." He paused, but gave no time for Nate to absorb this information. "Oh, and I promise it isn't us. Erasing your memories, I mean."

"What are you talking about?"

Tom shrugged. "The sensor sweeps told me everything, man."

"The—what did you do to me?"

"Just scanned you for bugs! You're bug free, by the way. You and the, uh, mayor. It's necessary to make sure we got no Institute ears down here. You went through every test Dez would let me run. Full EMF scan, biological sniffers, whatever. Of course, sometimes the tests lie…" He leaned closer, trying to sniff Nate. Nate didn't know what he hoped to find. "Hey, have you eaten anything out there? Because if you have they got you!"

"No. I never eat anything," said Nate.

The sarcasm went over Tom's head. "You see, that's smart. But you got to be careful, man. The food out there is contaminated with bugs. _Institute bugs._ That's why I grow my own food. Reclaimed pure water. Local nutrients." He pointed out a small vegetable garden beside his desk. The small plants there were cared for, such as sprouting tatos and sprigs of razorgrain.

Nate believed these people were crazy. "You think I'm a synth."

"The sensor sweeps don't lie, man." Tom looked apologetic.

"That's ridiculous!" Nate blustered. He searched around for support but he only saw solemn faces. Only Hancock looked unconvinced, but Nate refused to take his help. "I'm not a synth. I'm not a robot. If you really knew me, you'd know I was alive before the war." Nate had never heard of synths back in his time. He had a son, and he was sure a robot couldn't start a family.

Tom was disappointed. Desdemona sent most of the group away, including Tom, Deacon, and several Railroad agents who had gathered to listen. Hancock stayed, but Nate wanted him to leave the most.

"You came to us for a reason," said Desdemona, changing the subject. "Care to share what that reason is?"

"I think the Institute kidnapped my son." Desdemona wasn't surprised. She already knew his story.

"We already had a way into the Institute. You brought—_ we _ were given a Courser chip several months back. Do you know what a Courser is?" Nate shook his head. "A Courser is a working agent for the Institute. They reclaim escaped synths, and they have the ability to teleport in and out of the Institute at will. Doctor Virgil drew us some schematics to build a teleporter using the same technology."

She waited, watching him carefully. Nate bristled. "Well? What happened?"

"You used it to teleport into the Institute. Now you're back with no recollection of what happened."

Nate gritted his teeth. "Where's the teleporter? If you already built it, we can get back in there and rescue my son."

"It was unfortunately destroyed. Single-use only. Tom tells us there wouldn't be a way back in even if we built another. The signal went dead after you used it. No signal, no way in. I hope for your sake that the Institute isn't involved in your son's kidnapping, but given your circumstances…"

Nate was finally met with Desdemona's current state of affairs. She didn't have any other leads to follow, and her only agent who had actually reached the Institute had no memory of it happening. They thought he had been replaced by a synth, and Nate didn't know how to disprove it. He would be looking just as grouchy in Desdemona's shoes.

* * *

Desdemona offered him a place to stay at their HQ. He worried they wouldn't let them leave, but Desdemona never threatened him. She sent the woman with the minigun (Glory, Nate would later learn) to clear the way out of the church, and she gave Nate access to their exit tunnel. Nate was assured that he wasn't a hostage, so he saw no harm in staying the night until he figured out his next move.

He took one of the empty bedrolls. Nate tried to rest, but Tom kept staring over his terminal, and he wasn't the only one. Many of the agents were curious. Eventually, Nate dragged his bedroll down the hall and out of view of others.

Hancock joined him. Nate didn't know _ why _ Hancock kept following him or why he hadn't left yet. Nate would admit to beating Hancock up in a serial killer's basement, but Nate believed it was fair game after Hancock threatened him at Rexford. Nate knew better than to try to scare Hancock off, but he didn't know how else to get the ghoul off his back.

He couldn't rest with Hancock near. What if Hancock tried to kill him in his sleep again? "Why are you following me?"

"Wanted answers." Hancock shrugged, playing with his knife. It didn't put Nate's worries to rest. "We can talk about it tomorrow, if you'd like."

"I'd like to talk about it_ now."_ Surprisingly, Hancock smiled. It wasn't a kind smile, but it wasn't unkind. He almost seemed sympathetic. Nate caught Hancock talking to Desdemona earlier, but he hadn't eavesdropped. He hoped Hancock didn't pity him.

Hancock wouldn't talk. Nate picked up his bedroll again, scooting over to the end of the hall. As he tried to get comfortable, he heard Hancock moving, but when he turned around Hancock had only shuffled closer. He leaned against the wall, watching Nate through his fingers. Nate stared at him exasperated. Finally, he left to get some air.

He met Deacon in the catacombs. Nate gravitated towards the familiar face. Deacon pretended not to notice Nate until he cleared his throat. Then suddenly, Deacon tossed down his magazine and shot Nate a smile. He wore sunglasses, despite the seeping dark under the church.

Nate thanked him for before. Deacon's smile widened. "Hey, just calling it like I see it. I know you're a good guy. How are you settling in?"

He was a friendly guy. Regardless of Nate's troubles, he was put at ease. He didn't know how to answer—he wasn't settling in at all, especially after Desdemona's frightening welcome and Tom's crazy theories.

Deacon didn't press. He showed Nate his magazine when Nate asked. The pages were yellowed and some missing, but Nate knew he'd recognized it from his past. Grognak was his favorite Hubris superhero.

As he flipped through the pages, Deacon added, "If you need to know anything about us, I'm your guy. I know we haven't made a killer impression, but these are all good people fighting for a good cause. I'm sure you'll see it that way once you plant your feet."

Nate nodded. The Railroad didn't seem bad to Nate. What he had heard of their cause so far was honorable, even if he didn't understand what their strong interest in robots was about.

"Hey, can I see that?" Deacon was looking at Nate's Pip-Boy. He relented, undoing the straps and handing it over. Deacon clumsily fussed with the dial. He handed the Pip-Boy back eventually; the words _ Red Menace _flashed on the compact screen when Nate slid it back over his arm. Nate hadn't even known that he had the holotape for that game, but it was in his Pip-Boy this entire time.

"How did you…?"

Deacon shrugged. "Lucky guess," he said, still smiling.

"Thank you, Deacon." Nate's tone was genuine. He leaned more towards comics than video games, but it was a memoir of his pre-war days.

Deacon offered him a place to sit, watching Nate play over his shoulder. The goal of the game was to save the damsel from the Red Menace, a ghastly monster supposedly representing Chinese communism. It wasn't until many attempts that Nate passed the first level. By then, he didn't remember how many times he already died.


	8. From Within, I

A night turned into a day, then a few more. The week passed before Nate knew it. Deacon brought him holotapes with other Pip-Boy games, games like _Pipfall _and _Zeta Invaders, _proudly stating that he was a connoisseur of pre-war collectibles. He even showed Nate his modest sleugh of books and comics preserved from the Great War.

Among them Nate recognized school textbooks, fantasy dime novels, Hubris comics and the odd vacation pamphlet. Deacon's personal favorites were the pamphlets—he called them little snapshots of how the world used to be. Nate understood once he combed through them, looking at pictures of places like Hawaii and Las Vegas, and even the original Freedom Trail. Nate regretted never traveling before the bombs fell.

Hancock also remained at HQ. He seemed inescapable. At times Nate would break aboveground to stretch his legs, and Hancock would already be there, watching him reverently on the pews.

Deacon lent him all his Grognak issues. Back when they were together, Nate had bought Shaun _Grognak the Barbarian _comics whenever he saw them in stock. Shaun was only an infant, too young to read yet, so Nate held onto them as a gift to Shaun when he was older. By then the pages would be crumpled and their covers faded, because all loved things were worn in some ways, but there had always been time to buy Shaun newer comics.

"Do you know what you look like right now?"

Nate looked up from his Pip-Boy. He was on another level of _Red Menace,_ but his thoughts distracted him from the game. He tried to zone back in, even with Deacon looming over. "What do I look like?"

"It's your face. You make this funny expression when you're thinking about something bad."

"How do you know I'm thinking about something bad?"

"Because your expression," Deacon reiterated, making Nate feel dumb. "You should pluck your eyebrows sometime. You'll get a unibrow like that."

Nate hesitantly felt the tension in his forehead. His eyebrows were fine.

Deacon came to deliver a message from Desdemona. She was asking for him in the church. Nate, aghast, lost once more in _Red Menace, _so he got up from his bed to go see her.

She was upstairs where they built the atrium before the church fell apart. The stairs were unsteady when he climbed them, and Nate worried they would give under his weight. Desdemona herself leaned against a precarious railing, letting her hair sway in the draft. The dust thinned out on the second floor.

Desdemona turned to him. "What do you know about the Brotherhood of Steel?"

Nate knew they had an airship. He hadn't seen it himself, but he heard people in Goodneighbor talking about it. Over the Boston Airport, he recalled. The day was past noon, the sun squinting through the gaps in the ceiling, highlighting the red in her face.

She wanted them to have privacy. They revisited the topic of the Institute often. With good reason, for both of them were highly incentivized to get inside. Desdemona knew the Institute's rough location: the C.I.T. ruins, but supposedly far underground. The sewer system that ran under Cambridge might have once lead into the Institute, but the scouts she sent to the area reported that the way was sealed by a cave in.

Desdemona believed that the Brotherhood of Steel had the means to reach the Institute. If anyone could get in, it was the Brotherhood. "But leading them to the Institute would be a disaster, and that's assuming they would hear us out."

"Why would it be a disaster?" He knew the Railroad openly opposed the Brotherhood, and Desdemona would never be caught working with them. If the Brotherhood of Steel was that bad, Nate thought leading them into the Institute's base would solve both of their problems. _Let the bigger fish eat each other._

"Our mission in the Railroad comes to an end the moment that the Brotherhood finds all those synths. The Brotherhood doesn't just view synths as property. They view synths as abominations, like ghouls and mutants. They will eradicate every synth they come across." Desdemona wouldn't budge on Nate's way of thinking.

Nate still didn't understand the rules of synths. Sometimes synths were evil robots ripped out of a Silver Shroud episode. Sometimes they were slaves, but even that was a topic for debate amongst the Railroad. Desdemona didn't tolerate any notion of synths being machines. Of course, Nate was no robotics expert, so he couldn't dispute her. The Commonwealth was divided on the Railroad's cause, but most of the newer recruits just wanted to bring the fight to the Institute.

They didn't care about politics, and neither did Nate. "I just want to find my son," Nate said earnestly.

"There's more at cost than your son. We can't risk dooming hundreds, _thousands_ of synths." Nate saw her point.

Sometimes Nate couldn't stand listening to her. Her heart was in a good place, but Nate was focused solely on finding Shaun. She always tried to get him to take a step back, to think outside himself. She was an exemplar of this, dedicating her cause to helping people in need. He was reminded of the Minuteman he met back at Sanctuary.

Desdemona had been kind to him. She made him coffee on cold nights, but she took hers differently; black, while Nate preferred his coffee with cream, one hundred seventy-three point-five degrees Fahrenheit, brewed to perfection. (Codsworth had spoiled him.) It always smelled like cigarettes in her office. She smoked too often. She said it was to keep out the cold.

It was always cold in the catacombs, but summer had turned the afternoons warmer. The church wasn't cold, but she lit a cigarette and blew over the rail.

* * *

He left HQ by the end of the week. Deacon hung tentatively around his bedroll, who had noticed him packing up his things, but he didn't say anything. He was missing when Nate tried finding him to say goodbye. As expected, Hancock joined Nate and Dogmeat on the road.

Nate had made up his mind. He was headed to the airport in Boston to see the Brotherhood of Steel. Boston International pressed on the end of a peninsula adjacent to Spectacle Island, in full view of the coast. The first thing Nate saw was their airship careened towards the sea. From afar, the vertibirds cycling through the airport reminded him of crows in a cornfield.

It wasn't the first military base Nate had been to. If anything, it reminded him the most of home. As such Nate anticipated getting inside to be difficult. At the entrance, they were approached by a Brotherhood patrol in bulky, clunky Power Armor.

"State your business here, civilian." She addressed Nate squarely. He had prepared for this, but not well.

"Well, you see—"

Hancock interrupted. "We're looking to join up." Nate didn't mind the intrusion as much. Hancock was a smooth-talker; he folded his hands over his frock, tipping his hat, and he beguiled. He was always confident. Nate had objected to Hancock coming along the entire trip, but Hancock may as well help out if he was determined on staying.

She wouldn't face Hancock. Nate wasn't surprised. The Brotherhood's prejudice against ghouls was widely known. "Is that thing tame?"

"Hardly," Hancock snarled. Nate stepped forward.

"I want to enlist with the Brotherhood of Steel, ma'am. It would make me proud to serve your cause."

She still hesitated. Her disgust was blatant. Nate didn't hate ghouls, he just hated Hancock. Funnily, he couldn't blame her if she didn't let them pass because of Hancock, as Nate would do the same in her shoes.

"Stand down, soldier!" Nate heard a man call down to them from inside the airport. Nate heard his heavy footsteps before he saw the man, also dressed in Power Armor. As Nate would later learn, that was Paladin Danse. The woman brushed aside to let Danse through.

"I want to join the Brotherhood of Steel," Nate told him.

"And we could use you by our side." Danse appraised him, but the rest he said made no sense: "I've seen you fight. I might have offered you a place in the Brotherhood myself if we hadn't parted so abruptly. But we don't permit ghouls in the Brotherhood. You should tell your friend to leave."

Nate bit. "He's not my friend," he swore, startling Hancock into laughter.

"Didn't mention you were already friends with _these—"_

"He's not my friend, either." Nate lowered his voice. He was getting déjà vu.

Paladin Danse welcomed Nate inside. As stated before, the invitation didn't extend to Hancock, but he fought his way past the guard at the entrance. She readied her rifle to shoot him, but Danse stepped in before the situation got out of hand. He reluctantly let Hancock join them.

"The elder won't approve of your presence." Hancock shrugged off Danse's warnings, noncommittal and smug.

Danse shed some more light on their previous history. He asked after Nate's well-being, telling him that the deep range transmitter was successfully able to contact reinforcements from Washington. Nate expected things to make sense the more Danse explained, but it was the opposite.

They had to ride a vertibird to get up to the airship. It wasn't Nate's first experience with a VTOL craft, but they launched near the end of his service, so he never got the opportunity to ride one. These vertibirds seemed more advanced than the ones he saw in Anchorage. Riding in one wasn't something Nate would soon forget.

Danse observed. "You're impressed." Nate was hard-pressed not to be. He could see the sea, and the foggy trail of Boston's North End. He was even more impressed when they landed on the airship. Danse introduced them to _The Prydwen, _the armored giant in the sky.

Nate was sent to the command deck with the other new recruits. Hancock wasn't allowed inside further, and Danse stayed to keep an eye on him. Nate wasn't too worried. He secretly hoped Hancock might lose his footing and fall off the rail, although he felt a little guilty for thinking that.

Elder Maxson was in charge of the Brotherhood of Steel. The view from his office was worse than out on the flight deck, the observer hanging over the murky sea, but the sunset permeated, regaling the walls with deep reds. Nate immediately noticed how young Maxson appeared.

Nate arrived late and only caught the end of Maxson's speech. He fell into line behind the other recruits, taking it in. Desdemona had only used warnings and harsh words in tandem with the Brotherhood of Steel, leaving him unprepared for the awe he felt, walking aboard their base.

He didn't get the opportunity to speak with Maxson in the observer. He was forced to return to the flight deck where Danse was waiting. Nate got a small taste of _The Prydwen_ on his return through the halls. He was buzzing when he came back, only to be astounded once again at the world above the airport.

Danse greeted him warmly. "I know that look. Amazing, isn't it? Maxson has a way with the troops. Through him we all envision the change we could bring to the Commonwealth." Nate agreed that Maxson was charismatic. He commanded the recruits with ease, and Nate plainly saw how inspired his troops were. Danse himself was a fine example.

Nate didn't know if he felt more worried or more hopeful. It was difficult to be worried, awed as he was, but Nate knew the danger in a strong military organization like the Brotherhood. "Is it like this everywhere else? Where you guys come from?"

"I can't speak for our division in the west. Personally, I've always served under Elder Maxson. Don't let his age fool you. He's a brilliant tactician." He turned Nate's attention to the coast. "All the water you see here is irradiated, but in the Capital Wasteland, clean water flows like—well, like water. The Brotherhood did that." Danse waved his hands over Boston Harbor when speaking of_ "all the water you see here,"_ painting an impressive narrative for Nate to ruminate on.

He finally noticed that Hancock and Dogmeat were gone. He didn't care if Hancock had been evacuated off the base in his absence, but he hoped his dog was being watched over. However, Nate focused on the conversation at hand. "Is that what they're calling D.C. now? 'The Capital Wasteland?'"

Danse trivialized. "It's been commonly referred to as the Capital Wasteland for as long as I can remember. I grew up there." Nate wondered if there was anywhere in the country that wasn't a wasteland.

He finally braved enough to ask. "Is it like this… everywhere?" Nate didn't know if he really wanted to hear Danse's answer. He wasn't sure he was ready for it.

It was none other than Elder Maxson himself who interrupted them. He stepped out onto the flight deck alone, but up here in the _Prydwen, _he had little reason to worry about danger befalling. Danse turned around, squaring his shoulders. Even Nate found himself posturing up before the elder.

"I have an urgent assignment for you, Paladin," said Maxson. He spoke of a super mutant encampment on the peninsula. He gestured to Boston Harbor like Danse had, as if the sea belonged to the Brotherhood too.

"It'll be a pleasure to exterminate that filth." Danse seethed with purpose. Nate nodded beside him, agreeing.

"Take the Initiate with you," Maxson ordered, noticing Nate. He appeared to recognize Nate from the observer. "It'll be a good test of his capabilities."

The super mutants took refuge in Fort Strong. Nate was familiar with Fort Strong from before the war. The exact operations undergone at Fort Strong were top secret, but Maxson's debriefing shed some light on the fort's past purpose. The fort was sitting on a stockpile of Fat Man shells. Super mutants and nuclear missiles mix well, but it appeared the super mutants had yet to realize. Thus, clearing out the fort was principal before it became a problem.

They boarded an arm vertibird to take out to Fort Strong, joined by two other Brotherhood Initiates, but only Danse was wearing Power Armor. When Maxson dismissed them, Danse dragged his fist over his heart and answered him in Latin.

Danse explained on the trip. "I apologize. You appear to have previous military experience, so I assumed…" He didn't finish, and Nate didn't answer a question that wasn't asked. "It's the Brotherhood's rallying cry. _Ad Victoriam _means 'to victory.' In our eyes, defeat is unacceptable because we're fighting for the future of mankind."

_"Ad Victoriam," _Nate echoed, pushing his hand against his chest languidly.

Fort Strong was on the farthest point of the peninsula. They started shooting when the vertibird was close, bullets ricocheting against the hull. Danse directed Nate to the mounted minigun off the side. Nate had seen vertibirds with two miniguns, one at each door, but that wasn't the case here. He also heard that the guns were typically shielded, but Nate's position left him open to attack. He felt a shrill thrill as he aimed down at the banks.

A small huddle of mutants congregated below the aircraft, taking potshots. Danse dismantled them easily with skillfully placed shots. The real danger was further into the ruins, a giant mutant abomination that guarded the foot of the fort. It was capable of chucking large boulders and old walls at Danse's team. One of the Initiates had brought a grenade launcher, but Nate hoped he wasn't planning on firing it in the cramped plane.

His hands shook. Nate was fortunate that a minigun required little precision. Danse called the mutant abomination a Behemoth, standing taller than the vertibird could fly, its body bolstered with tumors larger than _The Prydwen. _Nate still saw the likeness of a human face in the Behemoth, which possibly frightened him the most.

They were forced to land. Danse took the Initiates into the ruins, but Nate stayed back on the vertibird. He was responsible for covering the team. Nate faced a big handful of super mutants by himself, but he considered himself lucky, watching from afar as the Behemoth turned over buildings and lurched the ground. When it died, the force of its fall sent shocks through the ground and brought up waves.

Next, they regrouped and stormed Fort Strong. The large of the fort had been nested in. Nate didn't know how else to describe it—gore bags were hung like garlands, worsening the rotten stench in building. Bloody netting scaled over the walls. Nate had seen nests like these all over the Commonwealth, but he had never been foolhardy enough to get close. He slipped on the floor on the way in, his blood-covered soles.

Burning pressure built behind his throat. Nate doubled, vomiting on the stairs. Danse gave him room. When he was done, Danse said, "You must hate these mutants as much as I do."

The remaining Initiates threw themselves eagerly at all opposition. The fort was far from empty, but from the way they fought Nate would think they were invincible, running ahead in the halls whenever trouble was ahead. If anyone was invincible, it was Danse in his Power Armor. Danse's mission turned into protecting them as much as it was clearing out Fort Strong. Nate smartly stayed behind Danse, administering stimpaks when necessary.

They discovered the military stockpile in the basement. Shipping containers lined the walls, filled with artillery shells. Danse opened one of them with his help and inspected their condition. Nate didn't know what Danse was looking for, but Nate had never handled a Fat Man before, so he left it up to Danse's judgement. All seemed up to standard, and Nate was sent back to report their success to the elder.

Nate was still shaking by the time he returned to _The Prydwen. _He couldn't tell if it was from adrenaline or a fear for his life. He still smelled like blood and he wanted a shower, but the Commonwealth hadn't rediscovered running water yet.

The patrols directed him to the command deck. Nate dragged himself to Maxson. Danse had remained back at the fort to overlook the artillery transport, but the rest of the group returned unscathed. Nate was amazed, but he knew he owed it entirely to Danse's leadership.

Maxson was satisfied with his report. "I'll send the Scribes at once to supervise their transport. That'll provide quite an edge to our arsenal. Outstanding work at Fort Strong, soldier."

The day had passed them, the sun dimmer. "Seems like a waste of time," Nate said truthfully. Waste of time or not, he didn't come here to fight the Brotherhood's battles. In the days of his service, Nate wouldn't get off easy, talking like that to a superior. He internally flinched, but he had to remind himself that he wasn't actually joining the Brotherhood. He had almost forgotten in all the excitement.

Maxson wasn't offended. Contrarily, he commended Nate. "Eager to take the fight to the Institute? That's good."

"Sir, I _am _eager to fight the Institute." Nate would have preferred to catch Maxson's ear before being sent to the fort. At least the chain of events allowed Nate a moment alone with the elder. He seemed like a busy man, and Nate doubted he would so easily get an audience again.

"Not to worry, soldier. You'll be facing them sooner than you think." He went on before Nate could interrupt. "I went over Paladin Danse's reports in your absence. I admit, I'm impressed. It's an honor to have such a high endorsement from one of the Brotherhood's most respected members."

Nate hesitated. He indulged his curiosity. Danse was a good man, and Nate respected him, especially now that they had fought together. "What's in his reports, sir?"

"Worried about something? There's no need. He went into full detail of your retrieval mission at Cambridge. It was because of your combined efforts that Paladin Danse's recon team was able to contact us. Your actions may have saved the Commonwealth. Because of that, and for your work today, I say you've earned a promotion."

Once again, Nate was still in the dark. Rather than accept the rise in rank to Knight, Nate confessed why he really came here. The conversation lasted for hours. Elder Maxson, who was a good listener, patiently heard Nate's story; about his son, about the molecular relay, about C.I.T. Nate protected his sources, but he made his intentions clear. He wanted the Brotherhood to help him into the Institute. After what Nate had seen today, he believed they had the technology to get underground.

They were interrupted by Lancer Captain Kells, who had an important weather report to deliver. Maxson dismissed him. He had done more listening than talking, but he didn't kick Nate off _The Prydwen. _It was a mixed bag of a result.

Danse was still overseeing operations at Fort Strong, but Nate met Hancock above the main deck. Nate was happier to see Dogmeat with him. He greeted his dog gladly, then turned to Hancock with a sterner face. How Hancock had managed to sneak past the patrols was anyone's guess.

"Brother, have you seen the heat these guys are packing?" Hancock rummaged through the footlockers at the soldiers' bunks. Rather than sharing Nate's awe, distaste was written clearly on his features—primarily on his downturned mouth, the scrunch in his brow. "Well, tell me. How'd our story hold up against the big guy himself?"

"What story?" Nate forgot.

"Oh, come _on, _don't tell me you actually buy all this crap—"

"'A means to an end,' that's what my mother always told me," Nate sighed. He hung his head dismally. "I don't know why I went along with this plan of yours."

"Yeah, I don't know either." Nate, irritated, accused him of being a thief. Hancock sprang away from the footlocker in surprise. "Me? A _thief?_ Not on your life! This stuff's all yours! Didn't you know?"

The Brotherhood had given Nate a single bed and a locker to store his things. Hancock overheard word of Nate's promotion from a few gossiping Scribes, but Maxson neglected to pass on the news about Nate's living arrangements. That wasn't the only gossip Hancock overheard; as it were, Danse's endorsement and Elder Maxson's obvious interest made Nate the talk aboard the _Prydwen._

Hancock congratulated him on integrating into the Brotherhood so quickly. It sounded more like an insult.

Nate weakly protested. "Well, if that's my stuff…"

Hancock, fringing on the importance of sharing, turned back to his rummaging. Nate gave up. There wasn't enough room on that bed for himself and his dog, so Nate wasn't planning on staying. He was confused and tired, sinking into the edge of the mattress, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

They passed a short silence. Without warning, Hancock dropped a tin on his lap. Mentants, Nate noticed, but he declined them. "I'm not hungry."

"Not for the stomach. They're for the mind." Hancock tapped his forehead meaningfully, knocking his hat. Thoughtfully, Nate turned the tin over in his hands, eventually pocketing it.

"Do you take a lot of drugs?" asked Nate.

"As much as I breathe," Hancock answered, too solemnly to be joking. "Hey, brother. Know what would cheer you up? I'm thinking I give you the tour." He spread his arms around the _Prydwen _as if it were his, springing special enunciation on _"the tour." _

"A tour? They let you roam around?"

Hancock snapped. "Nobody _lets _me do anything. And they did, since they know what's good for 'em. Now get up. On your feet, soldier! We ain't too far from the mess hall, and you really oughta see all that sweet PA, know what I mean?"

Nate sprang from his feet when Hancock ordered him out of bed. Old habits, he cited. Hancock laughed, not meanly, walking Nate through the ship on his uncertified tour. They passed the mess hall, the clinic, and the senior Proctor's office. Hancock's presence guaranteed no interruptions. People avoided Hancock as if they would catch his necrosis, often turning tail around the hall when they saw him, muttering and scowling, but Hancock didn't care. He was more engrossed in showing Nate around.

Hancock's tour ended at the forecastle, where the Brotherhood stored their Power Armor. Nate inspected an unattended workstation: from what he could tell, the Brotherhood favored the T-60 model, and they kept what they had in good condition. Nate admired how the Brotherhood's insignia looked on the torso pieces. He felt like a kid loose in a Slocum's Joe.

Hancock looked smug. "See? I knew you'd go crazy for this stuff." Nate was a step away from breathing over the armor. He backed off, embarrassed.

"It's in great condition," Nate agreed. The left actuator on this one was a little sticky, but the rest was in top shape.

Hancock nodded. "You know how to use it?"

"Sure I do." Infantry got the most use out of Power Armor, as it was once called infantry powered armor less formally. Outside of infantry, Power Armor training was taught in boot camp. Power Armor had been intrinsic on the Alaskan frontlines. Nate lost count of how many times he rode out in T-45.

In a stroke of charity, he offered to show Hancock how to wear Power Armor. However, Hancock wasn't interested. "No thanks. Take two steps in that rustbucket and the whole Commonwealth knows about it. Besides, I don't think they'd lend their toys to a handsome guy like me."

Hancock wasn't wrong, Power Armor was noisy. But Nate took offense. He frowned, turning on Hancock, all signs of charity gone. "What, don't want anyone to spot you before you stab them in the back?"

Hancock frowned too. "And what do you mean by that?"

"I've seen the way you fight. Remember Finn?" At Hancock's stunned silence, Nate bristled. "Who tried to extort us back at Goodneighbor! How could you forget someone you—"

Hancock stopped him. _"I_ didn't forget. Just thought _you_ did."

Before they could continue, a woman in a rusty frame broke up their argument. Proctor Ingram, in charge of keeping _The Prydwen_ running. She gave Nate a real tour. As the last of the day escaped him, Nate decided to stay aboard for the night.

* * *

Hancock perched on the railing, looking below. The height terrified them when they originally ascended in the vertibird, but he was getting used to it. The air was more refreshing several hundred miles above the rest of the wasteland. He couldn't stand the constant stares inside, but the patrols left him alone on the flight deck.

He didn't expect company, but Hancock recognized the sound of Nate's footsteps. Nate's voice, too, spoke loud in the quiet. "Are you leaving?"

"Now don't sound too excited." Hancock smiled into his elbow. Nate was disheveled, more disgruntled than usual, which piqued his curiosity. "Weren't you sleeping? You look dead."

"Can't be worse than you," Nate retorted.

Nate reluctantly joined him on the railing. He seemed to be out here for similar reasons. _The Prydwen_ was noisy, but Nate's service taught him to be able to sleep anywhere. It wasn't the loudness that bothered him, but his own restlessness, his incessant worries. Hancock scooted away to make space between them.

The silence wasn't unpleasant, but Hancock always felt a need to fill the void. "You never told me how it went with, uh, whoever's in charge. About getting your son."

Nate agreed, but didn't recount the events. His focus was elsewhere. Hancock let it go, playing with his lapels.

Unexpectedly, Nate spoke up. "How do you get used to this?" Nate gestured down below. The way he asked, it sounded like something he'd been trying to figure out for a while. Hancock couldn't blame him. The Commonwealth took some adjusting, but Nate's circumstances were even stranger.

He tentatively began. "I can't honestly believe that—y'know, the stories. About you being put on ice and coming back to this."

"Never mind," Nate started, but Hancock spoke over him.

"So the pity bothers you, right? Because half the Commonwealth pities you, I bet. Especially those nutjobs in Diamond City. You're like a fairytale."

"I don't _know," _Nate spat.

"Sometimes I start pitying you, too. Don't know what I'd do if I was alive before this hell. Don't know how those ghouls before the war do it. But at least they woke up with the rest of the world. You're different. You showed up late to the party."

"I don't know," Nate said, more quiet.

"Bet you wish you never woke up," Hancock mused.

Nate's anger flooded out of him. He deflated against the rail. His cheeks turned with the cold, wide, gaunty eyes and eyeless expression. Boston lights reflected on his teeth. Whatever the Railroad thought, nobody looked more human than Nate did now.

Hancock started feeling guilty. "It's not so bad," he tried to reassure. "There's good people. Goodneighbor's good people. And you'll see things here that you can't believe. Hey, look at this huge hunk of junk, right?"

Nate looked around. "They had airships like this in the military. Before the war."

"But we got those guns that fire little nukes—"

"Developed before the war," Nate finished, looking out towards Fort Strong. He suddenly piped up, "And did you know John Hancock was the first guy who signed the Declaration of Independence? Some pre-war history for you."

Hancock glanced up. "Woah! Did I?"

"Yeah, you did." Nate smiled, playing along. "Are those really his clothes?"

"Who knows, brother." He fixed his hat.

Nate's released the tension in his chest with a long sigh. When Hancock drew an inhaler from his coat, he spoke again. "I don't actually think they had Jet before the war, though."

Hancock rose his brow. He didn't have eyebrows to speak of, but Nate was learning to understand his expressions. This one was of surprise. "That's for real?"

"That's for real," Nate confirmed.

Hancock threw up his arms. "See what I'm saying? Greatness is born from tragedy! Hallelujah, brother, praise these bombs! I'll join the Church!" He shouted the words out to Boston. They both doubled over, laughing across the walkway.

Hancock reached over, slinging an arm across Nate's shoulders. "You're not so bad," he decided. He offered Nate his inhaler, which he politely refused. Hancock forgot it in his coat.

"You're real bad, Hancock," Nate agreed.


	9. From Within, II

Danse was irritable the next day. He returned from Fort Strong in the morning—Nate knew because he watched Danse fly back, and he was amongst the first few to welcome him. Danse was usually irritable, a permanent wrinkle in his low brow, but the distrust in his eyes was new. He interrogated Nate privately.

"You never told me you were from the Railroad, Knight," Danse accused.

Nate hadn't mentioned the Railroad when he talked with Elder Maxson, but it appeared that Maxson was smarter than Nate thought. "I'm not from the Railroad. They were helping me for a time, but now I need the Brotherhood's help. I need to find my son."

The gravity of his situation held weight in his words. Danse's stern expression relented into one of more understanding. He apologized, and handed Nate a peace offering. A piece of bubblegum, wrapped in dirty foil. Nate was gracious, if not somewhat taken aback.

Elder Maxson wasn't as understanding. The elder waited for them on the flight deck, eager to send them off. Vertibirds were leaving the hangar in bigger numbers than usual. The news traveled quickly: Brotherhood patrols went to Cambridge overnight to secure the C.I.T. ruins, and the Brotherhood planned to blow the top off the Institute. Nate was to join them, and Paladin Danse, who was still supervising Nate under Maxson's orders.

Maxson rang loudly with disapproval, but he was reasonably forgiving. Nate's saving grace was that he had brought valuable information with him. Maxson had suspected that the Institute was in Cambridge based on the traffic from that area, but Nate's intel confirmed it. Nate wasn't sure where this left him with the Railroad, but hopefully Desdemona would understand.

"Let's take the fight to the Institute!" The troops answered Maxson in an upheaval of applause. Nate boarded the vertibird with uneasy legs, taking off once Danse's debriefing ended.

This month officially marked the beginning of summer. The back of his neck was toasty, and his pits sweated. The breeze from the air was welcome. Nate sat around the minigun, watching _The Prydwen_ become a smaller blimp in the sky.

"I'm glad you made the right choice," Danse was saying. They were still talking about Nate's allegiances. If Nate was being honest, he didn't feel like he had any allegiances, but he knew to play his part so that he wouldn't be booted off this mission. Danse pressed, "You can have a bright future with the Brotherhood, so long as you stop fraternizing with the enemy—"

"Who's fraternizing?" Hancock called from the back. As per the usual, he followed. Nate was secretly grateful for the interruption. He didn't want to hear any speeches before noon.

_The Prydwen _finally vanished behind them like a dream. North End was alive today as they flew over a skirmish between mirelurks and raiders, but the sight of so many vertibirds in the sky gave everyone pause. Nate felt a little proud to be a part of something big like this, even if he wasn't really with the Brotherhood. He fired down into the streets.

Hancock leaned over the door, whistling. "Hey, can you get that one?" He pointed to Nate's right. "Yeah, that guy with the funny hat—"

Nate swung over. The raider was shot, his friends scuttling like radroaches. Hancock applauded him. "Now get that one!"

Cambridge came to head across the bridge. The city was quiet, but Danse told him it used to be overrun by ferals. He pointed out the police station for Nate. It didn't jog any memories for him, but he still nodded along to whatever Danse said.

The Brotherhood patrols that arrived before them had cleared the ruins and secured the area. They were alerting most of the Commonwealth to this area, but the few hostiles that ventured over were shot on sight. Their vertibird landed with a row of other vertibirds, sitting on the roof like fat vultures.

Hancock and Nate followed Danse to the compound, Hancock at a distance. The agreed upon plan was to blow up the space between the surface and the Institute, so Scribes had marked off an excavation site in the middle of the ruins. Nate noticed gore bags hung on the front door from previous inhabitants. Even with the ghouls gone, Cambridge was densely populated, and Nate wouldn't have made it if he tried coming to C.I.T. alone.

Lancer Captain Kells presided over the excavation. He was Maxson's second-in-command, and stuck out of place when he left _The Prydwen, _but he hadn't hesitated to take Maxson's stead on this mission. Nate was still surprised Maxson chose not to come with them himself.

When Kells gave orders, everyone heard his voice boom across the compound. "Reminds me of my sergeant," Nate commented.

"If he was a man comparable to Captain Kells, he must have been admirable." Danse had no shortage of praise for the Brotherhood, but he misunderstood Nate.

"I meant he's loud!" Nate laughed. "But I guess we all went a little deaf after a few months."

"Deaf, soldier?"

"Definitely, Paladin. You see, the Chinese had these massive artillery guns, and you could probably hear them all the way back to Boston..." Nate was a sucker for war stories, even his own. He wasted the hours recounting his service at Anchorage, and Danse listened attentively, rapt.

Hancock sat on an rusty upturned truck. The back was filled with irradiated barrels, which obviously didn't bother him, and it kept the Brotherhood away. Hancock comfortably settled, dozing in the summer heat. Danse watched eerily, lowering his voice. "How did you become friends with a ghoul?"

"We're not friends," Nate insisted. Still, he smiled. He treasured last night on _The Prydwen. _Nate hadn't laughed like that in a long time, genuine and from his belly. They were still at odds, don't get him wrong, but Nate was less hateful.

Danse clearly disapproved. "You won't get far into the Brotherhood with a ghoul… manservant."

_Manservant, _he thought with bemusement. Aloud, he joked. "Could be worse, couldn't it? I could be travelling with a mutant!"

"That would be worse," Danse agreed, voice turned curt and small.

The pitwalls of the site were loaded with plastic explosives. After hours of preparation, everyone gathered back from a safe distance. The resounding explosion was heard for miles. Kells ordered a second round of C-4 carried into the pit, detonating a second time once the dust cleared. Danse wore his helmet, Nate a gas mask with goggles, both protecting from heavy dirt clouds.

The last explosion hit. A metal _clang!_ struck the air, Nate peered into the large hole with the other Scribes. They shined some light down, discovering a chamber all the way down with its walls peeled back from the blast: a room into the Institute, though it looked decrepit.

Knights descended into the cavern. Nate was one of the few who went without Power Armor, loading into climbing gear instead. Kells stayed topside, yelling down orders a few feet from the pit. Danse went before Nate, making sure the path was clear for Nate to follow.

The walls shook around them, a cavernous rumble that could send loose soldiers. Nate climbed steadily. He never did anything like this in Anchorage, but he knew some men who could scale the treacherous cliffside in minutes, and he tried to recall how they did it. The ground's constant tremors reminded him of Chinese artillery guns. He began to worry about the stability of the tunnel, despite the Scribes' preparations.

He lurched off the wall. Nate gripped at the air, finding purchase at last; another blast had gone off below them, sending men around Nate flying, but he couldn't see through the smoke under his feet. His hearing waned. Danse was dragged into the smoke, sending Nate a final look of panic.

Nate looked up. He tried to climb, but his arms wouldn't budge no matter what he did. From the dust, he saw Hancock's head emerge over the tunnel. Nate wasn't too far down. Hancock was trying to help one of the Knights escape, shouting down at Nate, but Nate couldn't hear him.

_"Let's go!" _Nate imagined that's what Hancock was saying, but it looked like: _Let go! _

Nate didn't have a choice. His grip loosened on its own, and another shock careened him into the tunnel. His head hit the wall on the way down, losing consciousness. The pit fell in after him.

* * *

Nate foolishly thought he was dead. He should have known better. When he awoke, he was surprised to still be alive: his dreams had left him feverish, his tongue like molten lead. He blinked up at the ceiling, wondering what heaven was like.

Someone had put him in a simple room, but what threw Nate off was the acute cleanliness. Nate slept over the covers of a made bed. The floor was polished, the air clear enough to die on, his change of clothes—an undecorated jumpsuit, rubbery, soft inside and remarkably fresh. Nate's hair had been washed, his face feeling lighter without the layers of grime.

A man stood at the open door. Nate didn't notice at first, but hurriedly sprang up from the bed once he realized he wasn't alone. The unfamiliar man stared at Nate, waiting to speak when spoken to.

But when Nate asked where he was, his answer wasn't straightforward. "Father is waiting for you on the next floor."

"Father?" Nate frowned.

The unfamiliar man corrected himself. "Your son is waiting for you."

Nate's reaction was instantaneous. He demanded to see Shaun, but the man gave him directions to the room across the hall. He didn't follow Nate and didn't stop him from leaving.

Nate emptied into a chamber with a grand staircase. His eyes burned from the stark white in each room. The halls felt empty, unusually quiet, as if he were still in a dream. Nate didn't want for his confusion to catch back up to him. He went upstairs, following the directions given to him to the Director's quarters.

The door was open. He scuffed his shoes on the carpet, entering cautiously, acutely aware that he was unarmed. The lounge was absent, but someone waited for Nate in the study upstairs.

Shaun stood alone near an open balcony. Politely greeting his father, he stepped outside and invited Nate to come. The balcony had a gaping mouth that opened to the rest of the Institute: a tidy garden area around a glass heart, and three other towers facing a roundabout. Including a fourth, the one they surveyed from. Nate thought of ichor, running like water in the Institute's veins. Everything was meticulously symmetrical, appearing otherworldly or alien.

Nate observed Shaun in a better light. He was old, far older than Nate, his face lined and his hair greyed. It was the eyes that Nate recognized. Bright and sad, they squinted when he smiled, betraying his feelings.

They had a lot to talk about. Shaun didn't pressure him. He gave Nate time to take it all in, a bigger shock than Nate's induction aboard the _The Prydwen._ When he spoke, his tone was kind. "Go slowly. You sustained some injury, and we couldn't be sure how you would react. Tell me what you make of all this."

"You're my son." Nate wasn't asking, but he wondered if he should.

Shaun drew back in surprise. It was only a second before he regained his composure. "You've come a long way to find me."

Nate was surprised, too, more at himself. He expected to be overcome with emotion at their reunion. He had imagined how this would play out, although Nate couldn't have anticipated everything. But he felt hollow, underwhelmed. He wasn't unhappy—maybe it was shock.

Shaun went on. "The results have been promising. But I can only imagine the questions you have for me. You have arrived at an opportune time, father."

"Results?" he echoed.

Shaun didn't elaborate. He faced away, towards the mouth of the balcony. The longer Nate looked at him, the more unfamiliar his face became, but his eyes kept reeling Nate back to his memories.

"Do you want to sit?" Shaun asked empathetically.

"You're… old." It was an astute observation. Nate hurriedly added, "You look—you look wonderful. But what happened to you?"

"I always thought that I bore your resemblance," Shaun noted. He patiently explained the chronology of Nate's experiences from Vault 111. He had aged far beyond Nate when Nate had been sleeping. Like the rest of the world, Shaun wasn't exempt from the passage of time.

"And this place," Nate marveled. "The view! Nowhere else in Massachusetts looks like this!"

Shaun and Nate sat on the balcony, talking for hours. Nate lost track of time. Nate had many questions; about the vault, about the Institute, about Shaun. He had traveled across the Commonwealth in a big berth, from the west, to the east and south. Nate felt tired in all his bones, but he was here at last.

Shaun sent Nate on a tour. He urged Nate to meet with the most brilliant minds in the Commonwealth, to see the pinnacle of technological advances forwarded by the Institute, to make his own assumptions outside the rumors he heard on the surface. He left Nate content on answers and brimming with curiosity.

Nate met with the heads of each department, which were respectfully: the Robotics division, SRB, BioScience and Advanced Systems. He went to BioScience first, the right atrium of the Institute.

BioScience's lead scientist was Doctor Clayton Holdren, a young and friendly man. He showed Nate their crops, allowing Nate a taste. The vegetables they grew were fresh, springy and free of radiation. It would put Tom's home garden to shame.

"Have you decided whether you'll join us?" He was eager to pull Nate into the fold.

"I just don't think I'd fit in," Nate answered honestly. He wasn't a scientist like Doctor Holdren.

"Even if science isn't your passion, there are plenty of other ways to contribute," Doctor Holdren assured. "I believe Father has plans for you, if you were to stay with us. And from what I've heard, you're both fearless and resourceful. I can think of many roles you'd be ideal for."

"Fearless and resourceful," Nate echoed thoughtfully.

Naturally, he was drawn to the gorillas. They roamed in artificial enclosures, ordinary according to what Nate remembered. He assumed they were real gorillas until he learned they were synths.

"We had to keep them caged after a small incident," Doctor Holdren explained.

"An incident?"

As he asked, the glass broke on one of the enclosures. The gorillas went wild once they were freed, attacking the botanists. Doctor Holdren fled to the hall. Nate tried shooting them, but his tiny handgun was useless against the gorillas' unusually thick hides. They behaved not like animals, but like monsters.

The largest gorilla trapped a man against the planters, biting down on his head. Nate had never seen a man-eating gorilla before. He had never seen such a spray of red either, blood that tucked in the white walls.

The gorillas were eventually contained with the help of the guards. Doctor Holdren retreated into his office, far less well mannered and far more pale. After the commotion settled, the botanists calmly returned to their stations as if nothing had happened.

* * *

Nate met another Division Head on the stairs. Allie Filmore, in charge of Facilities. Her voice was grating and annoying, but hers was the first smile that met her eyes, unlike the other scientists who only paid Nate in strained politeness.

"So now that you're here and you've spoken to Father, does that mean you're on board?"

"Shaun," Nate corrected. "I don't know what I'm 'on board' with. This is a lot more than I expected."

She still smiled, but he noticed her strain. "I guess we'll see what happens."

"I guess we will," Nate agreed. She left him to ruminate on the steps.

The SRB stood for the Synth Retention Bureau, the right ventricle of the Institute. It was headed by Justin Ayo, who was involved in a heated argument when Nate arrived. He reluctantly showed Nate around and explained the duties of SRB with utmost grievances. Nate was most fascinated by the Watchers; synthetic raves, sent to spy on the Commonwealth.

"I think I've seen those before," Nate realized.

Justin sniffled. "Well, they would be indistinguishable from an organic specimen, but yes, it is possible that you noticed them on your travels. Father always wanted to keep a close eye on you."

_Big Brother, _Nate thought.

Justin Ayo never smiled, not even politely. Nate was relieved to leave. He visited the Robotics department next. The noise was almost frightening, and were the machines: big hands extended from the ceiling, creating synths from rib and clay. The big hands assembled every bone, their hearts and stomachs, and painted the skin on their backs. Nate would be terrified if they had been assembling real people.

Nate's last stop was Advanced Systems. Compared to the loudness he left, the scientists in this department were unobtrusive and quiet. Nate was kindly directed to the Division Head's office. Doctor Madison Li was busy when Nate knocked on her door, but she took a break from her work to humor him.

She fitted Nate's Pip-Boy with a Courser chip. Nate remembered Desdemona's explanation of Courser chips—the installation granted him direct access to the Institute's Relay. _Teleportation, _Doctor Li explained. She emphasized that it was a great privilege. Besides Nate, only Coursers were able to come and go as they pleased.

Doctor Li noticed Nate's amateurity as he fumbled with his Pip-Boy. "How acquainted are you with that thing?"

"Acquainted? Well…" It geographically mapped his surroundings, that he knew, and it came into great use when Nate traveled. He knew how to play _Pipfall _and how to tune into the radio.

His lackluster response didn't impress her. Exasperated, she divided up time to teach him how to take full advantage of his Pip-Boy. Something she mentioned intrigued him: "You've got one of the better models, in my opinion." When he asked about that for comparison, she told him about the earlier models with biometric seals. Nate couldn't imagine anything more uncomfortable.

Doctor Li escorted him out of her office once their business concluded. At the door, she scrutinized him, a frown taut around her lips. She sighed and said, shaking her head, "I don't know what he sees in you."

* * *

Hancock squinted into the sun. It was suddenly bright and blinding: he turned around, holding his hat over his face, feeling a rupture of heat. When the light faded, Nate stood in the ruins that were once empty.

Hancock had kept his share of doubts when the Railroad made stories up about teleportation. They weren't stories anymore. It was a fresh experience, beholding a man's cells reform. Nate looked unnervingly casual, observing the campground with new eyes.

When he noticed Hancock, he stopped and called down. "Hancock? Is that you?"

Hancock leaned over the truck. The sky was out, and Nate drank in the stars like a thirsty animal. Nate was gone for only four days, but to Nate it could have been four years, or maybe four days was long enough to forget the sky. Hancock couldn't be certain. He knew nothing about where Nate went.

Then Nate looked at Hancock. He smiled, first with his eyes, then with his teeth.

"Out of the fire, I see." Hancock welcomed him with a smile of his own, but he was uneasy. He thought Nate died.

The fresh-faced crater in C.I.T was filled with bodies. They were under the rubble, but a few men stood out with white faces, flies on their arms, dog tags buried. Paladin Danse was among them. Nate noticed the crater last, his reaction one of horror.

"There was an ambush," Hancock explained. He climbed down from the truck. His back ached from holding the same position for hours. "I bet the Institute saw us coming miles away. They blew this whole place upside down once you guys started climbing. Didn't see your body in the mess, so I thought you mighta made it. Thought right." It was a half-truth; Hancock didn't think Nate made it out of the cave in, but he didn't believe Nate was gone either.

"I had no idea." Nate was grave.

Hancock examined him closely. "I know," he finally decided.

Nate looked sick. Not sick like a cold, but sick in the head—he was always mournful and unpresent, holding onto something he forgot. Now Nate looked mournful, and unpresent, but with wild in his eyes. Hancock could only hope to look half as feral. "How about we get out of here?"

Nate shook his head, puzzled. "Where can we go? Hey, Hancock, what are you even doing here?"

"Was waiting for you." Hancock didn't have a better answer. So he shrugged, switching gears. "We can lay over in Goodneighbor. It's closer than that deathtrap in the sky. And I still got a room for you in the State House, if you'll take it."

Nate didn't have any other ideas, so they hit the road. Hancock asked Nate questions about the Institute and Nate told Hancock stories, stories about synth gorillas, and robot ravens, and his son, Shaun.


	10. Familiar Faces

Hancock and Nate camped behind the bridge out of Cambridge. In an early morning, before the sunrise that brought the summer heat, they enjoyed the pleasant coolness of dawn. Nate squatted around an abandoned campfire. The last wastelander to stop here left behind empty cans of Pork n' Beans.

He turned a flip lighter over the assembled sticks and rocks. Fingers shaking, he couldn't hold his hands still long enough to get the fire going. Hancock chuckled quietly, sitting in the dirt. He offered Nate some Jet the last time he noticed his incessant shaking. Like all his offers, Nate turned him down.

Hancock was watching him. Nate fumbled with no luck; he tried squaring a long stick between two rocks but only scraped the wood off, and thinking back to his Scouts days, he remembered a trick involving steel wool and a battery. Nate didn't have any steel wool. Remarkably, Hancock had a fission battery in his boot.

"Wanna go hunting?"

He tentatively covered his stomach. Hancock knew he was hungry. Hancock noticed too much about Nate when they traveled together, which irked Nate, who didn't know what he was trying to hide.

"With what?" Gunfire in the woods would attract the raiders on the other end of the bridge. At least starvation was a slower way to die.

"Got this," Hancock flashed Nate his knife.

"That's dumb. You can't even kill a bloatfly with that."

Hancock grinned. He opened his coat, showing Nate a can of Cram he had inside, pulling it out and prying the top open with his knife. He passed it into Nate's hands. They had no forks, but Hancock let Nate borrow his knife to eat with.

Hancock turned over onto his knees. He took Nate's flip lighter and started their fire, feeding it scraps of newspaper. Nate wasn't a survivalist, no matter how many issues of _Wasteland Survival Guide _he poured over. He relied on Hancock's experience when they traveled together.

Hancock didn't eat around Nate. Nate imagined an unspoken stalemate between them wherein both men never admitted they were plotting to snuff the other. This time, Hancock poisoned Nate's Cram. So it was this mystery he had to uncover: theoretically, if the Cram _ was _compromised, could he differentiate the taste of poison from the taste of savory, salty pork meat? Would willingly eating poisoned Cram be better than starving to death out on the road? Was it a slow-acting poison? Did Hancock carry an antidote on him? How long did he have until the end?

"If you put it on a stick and cook it, the taste's not bad. Wasteland shishkebab?"

The Cram didn't cook in its brine, it just burned on its edges. Nate sniffed each bite.

Hancock was never satisfied in silence. He picked through a can of Mentats, but they didn't hold his attention. "So, Nate… you really think some old guy is your son?"

Shaun escaped cryostasis six decades before he released Nate from the vault. Nate wasn't old enough to have grey hairs yet. His son had layers under his eyes, his cheeks were gaunt, but his laugh lines were soft.

"And your son ends up leader of the Institute? Huh, you really expect me to believe that?"

"I don't care if you don't believe me," Nate snapped.

"Not you I don't believe. It's no secret you're looking for your son. Just seems convenient, the leader of the Institute being your son. Seems like an easy way to get someone working for them."

Nate disagreed. Shaun had explained the reasons he was kidnapped, the Institute's experimentation with synthetic organs and flesh, Shaun's ascension to his position as Father. It was too elaborate for a lie, but it made sense in Nate's head as an elaborate truth. The Institute raised his son to be an extraordinarily smart, accomplished man.

Hancock sneered. "Get him a trophy. I wouldn't be proud like you. If he's Institute, then he's responsible for tearing the Commonwealth apart. Hell, I'd stab him if it were my kid."

"It's good you're not a father."

Nate discarded the now-empty can of Cram, an unplaced sensation yearning towards the bottom of his belly, where the Cram had hollowed his stomach, digging in with his frustration. Nothing he ate left him feeling satisfied. The Commonwealth had made him sick, made his skin constantly itch from the insides.

"Cap for your thoughts," Hancock suggested.

Nate paused from his low reverie. Mulling for a moment, he eventually answered. "I'm thinking about our picket fences. And the grass. Back then, you'd have to trim the grass. Out on our lawn. Neighborhood regulation. Regulated the amount we'd need to water the grass, annually, to keep it green."

"Didn't know reminiscing was so boring," Hancock said, but he displayed open interest. Anyone wanted to hear about the world before the War.

Nate told him about his picket fenced paranoia. He was going to talk at the Veterans Hall the day the bombs fell. He worked on a speech throughout the months before Halloween week. The first few drafts were about their world on the brink of war. Back then, he said technology was a distraction from the truth, and the doom of their ways. _ 'They can help us escape, but we can't escape the violence in our hearts.' _

Hancock chuckled. "Now you're sounding like the Brotherhood." Nate didn't disagree. All his drafts were blue and brokenhearted. The bombs saved him from having to write a better speech.

Nate confessed, like Hancock was a priest in a confessional: _ What do I do with the violence in my heart? _"I never forgot my service."

"Wanna forget it now?" Predictably, Hancock offered Nate chems for his troubles. How many Hail Marys would equate to one shot of Med-X?

Nate told Hancock about the gaps in his memory. He didn't remember working with the Railroad. He didn't remember meeting Danse at the police station, he didn't even know Danse well enough to mourn his death. He believed Desdemona when she suggested his memories had been tampered with, but he didn't believe he was a synth.

"But what if she's right? What if the Railroad's right about me? I don't _ feel _ like a robot, I feel like myself, but…" Even these memories of his lawn felt like another man's memories, another man's lawn. Reminiscing didn't make him feel alive. The Commonwealth felt real, and his service in Alaska felt real. Maybe Nate really wasn't himself. Maybe Nate _ was _ himself, but he was going atomic crazy. Maybe both were true.

"I think it's all in your perspective. The Railroad talks a lot about liberating synths. Seems to them, there's more to a synth than a spy or an Institute dirtbag. Seems a lot of synths don't even know if they're not human. Could be that's your problem."

"I can't be a synth. I have a son."

Hancock put the pressure of his body on his arms. He was closer to Nate, and inches from the fire. "I think the Institute's planning something big, but I don't think you're behind it. Part of it, though? Yeah, I think you're roped up into the trouble they're brewing."

"I trust my son."

"Maybe you shouldn't." Hancock laughed again, leaned back again, his arms behind him and his hands in the dirt, constantly moving. Nate's sour face made him laugh a third time. "Look, brother, we got no proof of anything. Could be the Railroad's behind your problem. They got the tech. They've been using the Den for years to put escaped synths back into the Commonwealth. Now, I don't think that's it, for a number of reasons. And I think they're good people, but it wouldn't be the first time I was wrong about someone."

"What was the first time?"

Hancock mentioned a brother he didn't get along with. His explanation didn't run deeper than that. Nate didn't know much about Hancock, but he felt like Hancock knew too much about him.

Nate didn't press. To fill the silence, he tuned into Diamond City Radio. The fire was fading quickly, but neither he nor Hancock rushed to bring it back. Too much smoke would attract unwelcome company, and they didn't need the warmth, for the morning was already running hot.

To distract from the topic, Hancock said, "Know a way we could settle the mystery now, if you're up for it." Hancock picked up the shotgun on his side and hoisted it towards Nate. He made gunshot noises with his mouth. It was a joke, but Hancock's finger was on the trigger.

Nate didn't laugh, and Hancock's smile eventually fell. He lowered the gun. Just like that, the air changed between them. They didn't interrupt the radio for the entire journey back to Goodneighbor.

* * *

"Good to see this place hasn't changed in my absence." Hancock stretched his arms around Goodneighbor and embraced it. Even Nate welcomed the familiarity of being back behind walls. The townspeople who noticed Hancock's return began congregating in the entrance, shouting for a speech from their mayor who had left so suddenly and for so long. Nate slipped away unnoticed.

Before he left, Hancock advised him to stay at the Old State House. Hancock's suggestions were rarely just suggestions, so Nate decided it was best to accept the offer. He felt dizzy stepping into the Old State House, like the world was turning up and falling down again. Nate forced away the nausea in his eyes and asked for directions to the beds for drifters.

The guard near the door pointed to the upper wing, but Nate was stopped on the stairs by Hancock's bodyguard, Fahrenheit. She wanted to talk.

Nate glanced back at the door and the guard standing by. He wore a funny wig. "Wouldn't ignore her if I were you, bud. And I'm glad I ain't you, lemme say."

Fahrenheit invited him into Hancock's office, on the couch across hers. It was rough leather, hard on his palms when he pushed his fingers under the cushions. The office was unlived in with Hancock's absence, the air stale, the tables cleaner, and the curtains open to let in the sun. The mayor's office was presentable with a woman's touch.

She swiped her arm across the low table to clear some space. Fahrenheit slammed a game board down between them hard and loud enough to startle him. Her eyes visceral, she smiled at him in an unhappy way, sizing him up and visibly disregarding him, as if she could reach around the couch and throttle him at any moment. Even if she couldn't, she made Nate believe.

"Chess," Nate observed, keeping his voice low.

Fahrenheit lifted her pockets and shook the pieces onto the board. She rattled them, picking each piece in her fingers, putting them in their places. "Let's play." They only had pawns, not a full set.

"I don't think-"

"I'll kill you," she threatened. Nate wisely decided to join her in chess.

The goal was to reach the opponent's side of the board first. With the stakes unspoken, Nate was nervous and his hands trembled so badly he often couldn't place his pawns without knocking others over, for he worried that she would kill him for losing. Stale air scratched his throat. Sinatra sang morosely from Nate's radio.

"You really got our attention."

"Yours… and Hancock's?"

She sneered across the table. "Obviously. You came to Goodneighbor and shook the ground. Then Hancock disappears with no warning, same time as you. Almost a month later before he bothers coming back. And you're in tow."

"I'm sorry. You probably needed him here."

"I can take care of things in the boss's absence. Hancock's done more reckless things before. That wasn't the point."

"So what's your point?"

"You are, Nate." He took her pawn, and his pawn was taken by another piece on her turn. The fish that ate the worm was devoured by the shark. Their game was played much quicker than a game of chess, and with far less tact.

"I didn't tell Hancock to travel with me. He followed me on his own. He tried to _ kill _ me!" He wasn't lying. Nate had retaliated at Pickman Gallery, but the animosity before that was unprovoked.

Fahrenheit believed him. "Like I said, he's done more reckless things before."

She loudly tapped her fingers on the table. Hancock moved his hands similarly, often fidgeting around Jet inhalers or tins, incessantly moving. The _ tap, tap, tap _of her fingers was deliberate. Sweat gathered on the back of his neck, on the underside of his palms, on his jumpsuit when he rubbed off his hands.

"I saw your story. Have you read it yet? That girl in Diamond City wrote about you."

Fahrenheit leaned over and tossed him a rolled newspaper. The headline, _'View from the Vault,' _he had seen before, from copies circulating in Diamond City, and he had been approached by a couple people who read the paper. Piper Wright's name was under the headline. He didn't remember giving her an interview, and she hadn't said anything about it when they met at Diamond City. She described him as _ 'dull and dangerous, a distressed parent trying not to succumb to wasteland vices.' _The rest was his story, telling of Vault 111 and Shaun's kidnapping, but the man in the interview seemed like a different person.

"Did you find your son?"

Nate nodded.

"Then what are you doing here? Goodneighbor isn't the place to raise a family. What are you stalling for?"

"I just wanted somewhere to spend the night. Then I'll leave. I have other things to do. My son… needs me."

"You should hurry. Your time's running out."

"I can go back to him whenever I want," Nate argued.

"That's time. You might think you have plenty, but you're still losing it and you don't even know it." She glanced down, smiling quietly, looking momentarily surprised. "You won, Nate."

Nate already knew he'd won, but it didn't feel like a true victory; since Fahrenheit allowed him to go first, all her turns were reactionary, so when he took her pieces she took _his_ pieces, constantly staying one step behind. It grew into another game. No longer was it a matter of who won but one of how long it took him to win, and how many pawns would die until the game ended.

Nate assumed he was free to go, but he didn't yet, with his own questions she'd piqued. "Why the interest?" he finally asked. He had won her approval in some twisted way, so she sated him with an answer.

"The boss is worried about you. He thinks you bring trouble. I don't think he really wants to kill you, not unless he thinks you deserve it, but we both agree that you're going to be important in whatever's coming. This wasn't the first time you came to Goodneighbor."

Nate didn't remember the first time he came to Goodneighbor, but he was beginning to understand Hancock's suspicion. The rest sounded like what Hancock had already told him.

She revealed two other game pieces, a queen and a king; sitting them on the board, near Nate's last pawn, where it stood like a guilty man. Fahrenheit told him that the king represented Hancock, and that she was the queen, leaving Nate to be guilty.

"You're just a pawn, Nate, but I'm not underestimating you. Things change around you. People who meet you end up dead, or worse. Hancock thinks the Institute is pulling the strings." By her word, Hancock's suspicions about Shaun were reasonable. Nate didn't trust her word. He didn't see the grandeur. The things Fahrenheit accused him of, _ 'or worse,' _dropped his gut.

He started feeling prickly under his hands and along his arms. Nate was inexplicably sick again; the ground trembled, just as it had turned under C.I.T., and he heard catcalls on the balcony outside but _ felt _ them in his ears. Fahrenheit's face was muddled behind nausea. She looked like a ghost, like someone ethereal, in a nightmare or at the bottom of a river.

"You look bad. Get some fresh air. We can continue this when you come back."

Nate stood from Hancock's couch and followed the shouts to the balcony outside. Someone else was there, not Hancock, a heavy man in a pressed tuxedo and a dame on his arm. The townspeople gathered on the steps of the Old State House. They weren't cheering like they did for Hancock's speeches, they were crying for retribution. The man on the balcony had blood under his chin. His eyes were placid.

His teeth grated. "Get some fresh air, we can continue," Nate repeated.

He gripped the wall and vomited over the rail. The back of his mouth was tough and tasted like Cram. He spotted the red in his peripheral, and mistook it for Hancock's coat, but Hancock wasn't there when he turned around. The man and his dame were gone too, Nate alone in the heat.

Hancock's office was empty when he returned. He asked around for Fahrenheit but the guards didn't know where she went. Eventually, he gave up the search and left the Old State House. The townspeople watched him suspiciously, with faces dead and ugly, so he ran from Goodneighbor too.

* * *

He wandered into Boston Common. Nate absently walked the streets to the Common in a frightened ruse, discovering his surroundings with surprise once his head cleared. He found a bench to sit on. Concentrating, he could remember the cars in the street and the wind in the leaves, the stroller he took Shaun in when they went for walks around Frog Pond. He finally calmed down.

The signs about the swan were still up. Nate snorted and threw pebbles at the floating swan boat. The water rippled, but nothing stirred.

Nate's breath smelled like Cram, and his stomach was queasy. Maybe Hancock _ had _ poisoned him, or maybe Cram wasn't good after two hundred years. He found his gaze wandering to the subway station. He hadn't been a farer, not with an infant son to look after. For some reason, the station was eerily familiar. He doubted the trains still ran.

A dog barked from the alley. Nate ignored it, but the sound was familiar, and was the face that ran from the street to see him. Nate, surprised, crouched on his knees to pet Dogmeat and look him over. Deacon was following a few paces back.

"Nate? Is that _ you? _Can you believe, two good pals running into each other perchance while me and Dogmeat go on our daily stroll…"

"Weird place for a stroll," Nate frowned. He last saw Dogmeat at _The Prydwen, _the day they left for Cambridge. It was as Piper had said. Dogmeat was his own man, and he wandered, much like Nate. It was by chance that they reunited when Deacon happened to be looking after him.

"Well, you know Dogmeat. He's never satisfied with just a nip around the corner. No, our walk's only done when we've gone around the huge super mutant camp and at least a dozen raider patrols. Isn't that right, boy?" Dogmeat growled.

Nate slowly smiled. "Well, it's nice to see him again."

_ "Ouch. _ What am I, chopped Cram?" He spared an awkward laugh, suddenly turning his attention on Nate. "Hey, what are _ you _ doing out here? The Common isn't a great spot for tourists."

Nate snapped. "I'm not a tourist. I lived here." He squinted at his Pip-Boy. Shaun wanted Nate to rendezvous with another Institute agent somewhere on the coast, close to _ The Prydwen_. He might make it in a few days if he started travelling tonight. Of course, he could use the Relay, but Nate wanted to avoid teleporting if he could. It attracted too much attention, and the sensation was _unpleasant, _putting it lightly.

Deacon waved a hand dismissively. "You going my way? Railroad is close. Dez would love to see you again."

"I've got plans." Nate pointed in a northerly direction.

"Well, you want some company? Besides Dogmeat. He's a good guy, but paws and guns generally don't mix. The Commonwealth is pretty dangerous up north, and-" he stepped forward, close enough for Nate's reflection to stare back at him off Deacon's sunglasses. "There's been rumors that you made it inside the Institute," Deacon ended, voice a hair louder than a whisper.

Nate leered back. "Rumors?"

"Well, I started them." Deacon grinned. He sounded nervous, but it was hard to tell. "Good job with the Brotherhood, by the way. Shame it didn't go too well for them. But you had nothing to do with that, right?"

"No, I didn't."

"That's what I said! So, what do you say, boss? You don't want to travel the Commonwealth without a friend. Or we could go back to HQ. Dez would love to hear about the stuff you've been up to."

Deacon was adamant. Nate didn't want to return to the Railroad. He should be fortunate that Desdemona wasn't angry with him after the stunt he pulled in Cambridge, but his mind was weary with troubles. He wasn't ready to face the Brotherhood either. Hancock described the collapse at the C.I.T. excavation as an Institute ambush, but Nate believed it was an accident in the tunnels. What would Maxson think?

Deacon knew he had been inside the Institute. He, like Hancock, knew too much about Nate. He said he knew Nate from the papers and the people talking in Diamond City, he said he followed Nate around, because it was his job.

Once again, Nate understood Hancock better. It was far easier to keep your enemies close. He didn't trust Deacon, so the idea of letting Deacon out of his sight suddenly seemed dangerous. Deacon acted peculiar around Nate too. He had less smiles, a _ vibrato _ in his voice, as if Nate unhinged him. (The feeling was mutual, he thought.)

"You look like you need some answers," Deacon finally said, speaking for the silence. Nate had been lost in thought for a while.

He gave in. "Have we met before?"

"We sure have. Oh, I don't know if you recognize me from the church, when I vouched for you in front of my boss? I wasn't wearing a pompadour wig at the time-"

"Before that," Nate interrupted.

"You worked with the Railroad before. Remember? So, yeah, you and I aren't exactly strangers. Don't worry about it too much. Hey, you can think of it as me trying to watch out for an old friend."

Nate tried following. It was a long time since he came from HQ, but what Deacon said sounded familiar. "What work did I do?"

"What work did _ we _ do, you mean. We ran ops together. We make a pretty good team. So how about keeping a good thing going and letting me join up with you?" At Nate's continued silence, Deacon sighed and relented. "Someone did a number on you. I know what Hancock says, and I know you aren't inclined to trust me, but it wasn't the Railroad that messed you up. All my bets are on the Institute. I've been watching you since you left your vault."

"A long time," Nate conceded, slightly creeped.

Deacon laughed. "You don't even know the half of it. I know things about you, Nate, and I'd be willing to share. But trust goes both ways. So let me come with you. Let me gauge you. If I think you're an innocent play in this, I'll answer as many of you questions as I can."

"And if you think I'm a bad guy?"

"If I think you're working for the Institute? That you're up to no good? What was it the mayor did… yeah, like this." He held up an imaginary gun and mimicked blowing Nate's brains out.

Nate needed answers. He needed to know if there was truth to what Fahrenheit said, why he didn't remember certain things, why the Railroad was so sure he was inhuman. Deacon had been kind to Nate before. And if he refused, Deacon would probably tail him anyway.

Nate decided. "Fine, Deacon. Come to Libertalia with me."


	11. Synth Retention

Their destination was Nahant Wharf, the journey there anything but quiet. Deacon pestered as much as Hancock did, but louder, and he talked over all of Nate's attempts at distraction. He talked over Travis on the radio, he talked while sneaking past raiders, he talked when running from hungry mirelurks on the beach. He talked when they fell into bedrolls at night and picked up the conversation first thing in the morning.

It became annoying before it became tolerable. Deacon was goading him—he wanted to irritate him, make Nate slip up. Nate bit back the mean thoughts he had whenever Deacon got under his skin. In return, Deacon watched his six and kept him safe all the way to the wharf.

Travelling on the coastline meant dealing with a lot of mirelurks on the way. Nate started to fear rocks in the sand the same way he hated enclosed spaces and inconspicuous cans of Cram. Dogmeat was good for sniffing the whiff of a mirelurk a mile away, and Deacon taught Nate a few uses for mirelurk meat.

Meat from softshells were almost gooey, and made good broth for stews. The hard meat could be packed into mirelurk cakes. If one was feeling brave enough to hunt in their egg clutches, one mirelurk egg and a cup of dirty water made a delicious breakfast omelette. Nate suggested steaming their claws and serving with butter. Deacon, delighted, promised to give it a try sometime.

They subsisted on mirelurk for a week. Nate didn't eat as much as he should, but Deacon joined him for every meal, putting Nate's paranoia at ease. They ate from the same pot. It was far preferred to dinner with Hancock, where Hancock watched Nate eerily and never spoke. Sharing a meal with your company was written in American hospitality.

A super mutant camp was across the wharf. Two Brotherhood vertibirds were dispatched to clear out the encampment. _ The Prydwen _hung like the sun's shadow on the other side of the water. Nate could see her over buildings, over hills, and over the moon when nighttime fell, like an ever-present omnipresence. The vertibirds' gunfire drowned out the sounds of the mooring. Nate smelled the sea thickest here, close to the wharf.

"Tell me again what the Institute asked us to do."

"Asked _ me _ to do," Nate corrected. This wasn't lost on him—Deacon, a Railroad agent, accompanying him on a mission to reclaim a synth for the Institute. He didn't anticipate this to go well. Nate still didn't know what _ he _ thought of the situation. So why did he willingly march like this for days, forward into uncertainty?

Nate asked Deacon about Libertalia. Deacon grinned apologetically, letting Nate know immediately that he'd been screwed over. "About that, boss. I don't know as much as I might have aired on."

Nate grit his teeth. "Well, tell me what you can."

"The Minutemen used to hold this place, but it looks like raiders took over recently. Other than that, I wasn't lying about this area being dangerous. The Railroad doesn't operate in the north much. I think the closest we've been to is an asylum near here."

"A donut shop _ and _an asylum? You really know how to pick 'em."

_ "Ha ha, _yeah. Didn't set up in an asylum, just relocated synths there until a mercenary group claimed it. Always told Dez it would make a cool base." Deacon eyed him warily, as if he said something wrong. Nate didn't register the look until later.

"I met some of the Minutemen in my old neighborhood, after I left the vault. Sanctuary Hills." The guy in charge had been kind to Nate, as if they were old friends. Nate didn't remember much about the Minutemen. He had been too distraught to linger in Sanctuary Hills for long.

"The Minutemen have fallen on hard times. Even in their glory days, they were nothing more than another ragtag group trying to militarize the Commonwealth. Well, _ militarize _is a harsh word, but maybe you get my meaning."

Everyone wanted a chunk of Massachusetts. It left Nate wondering what the other surrounding states were like. The Railroad coaxed the Commonwealth from underground, the Brotherhood from the sky, and Deacon talked about the Minutemen, who tried to glue Massachusetts together like door-to-door salesmen, hardly anything more than neighborly. What did the Institute want out of the Commonwealth?

A vast fog sat heavy on the wharf. All the boats on the moor were abandoned and crusted over, having parted from the sea since 2077. Beyond the moor, remnants of the dockyard were spread out on the water, linked by bridges around a capsized supertanker. With its stern pointing up, it hung around the wreckage and cast a large shadow, blotting out the sun. Raiders had built a tower in its gaping mouth.

Deacon whistled. Ominous as it looked, Nate couldn't say Libertalia wasn't impressive. Entering one of the warehouses on the boardwalk, he stepped in a puddle of blood. A small account of raiders and Brotherhood Knights lie dead on the ground, two of each. Nate cautiously fingered his gun.

An Institute Courser stepped out of the shadows and introduced himself. He was the company Shaun told Nate to expect at the wharf. Coursers were made for synth reclamation, so to send a Courser on this mission wasn't unusual (if anything, Nate was the unusual factor in this situation). He stated his designation as X6-88. _ X6, _Nate unsurely decided, noting to himself to ask Shaun about synth designations, as if Shaun would care to teach him how to address a machine.

X6-88 looked familiar to Nate. He was the first face Nate saw when he woke up in the Institute, but his mind was too clouded to remember. He attributed the familiarity to all Coursers dressing and talking the same.

X6-88 debriefed them on mission details. Hearing about the Libertalia gang leader, an escaped synth the Railroad had wiped the memories of and set free, Deacon grew apprehensive. He didn't say it aloud, but he didn't want X6 with him and Nate. Nate didn't think about what they would do yet. He only thought about how they would reach the synth first. They needed X6's help if they were going to make it through Libertalia.

X6 had already cleared the perimeter guard. Some Brotherhood too, Nate noticed. He worried that the vertibirds would come for them next, but they were stuck fighting a losing battle with mutants. In the case of super mutants with nuke launchers, Nate wouldn't bet anything against them, not even Deathclaws, and he had seen firsthand how brutal Deathclaws were in his military days.

One of the vertibirds crashed in the distance. Nate chose that moment to crawl into the base. Nate told Dogmeat to wait on the boardwalk. They came at a disadvantageous position: from below, in the thicker side of the beach fog, liable to be caught by roaming spotlights. Nate stayed low. He wanted to sneak past the entire preliminary camp to the supertanker, but he overestimated his capacity for stealth.

They were found almost immediately. X6 acted quickly, shooting the raiders that discovered Nate. He carried an Institute scattergun, and caught on unarmored skin, it disintegrated targets whole. Nate was both amazed and horrified to see raiders turn into dust in the wind, but mostly amazed.

"Sir, I advise you to take cover," X6 clipped to Nate. He wasn't advancing. He was lingering around Nate as raiders stirred from the puttered boats around the dockyard. X6 was guarding Nate. Shaun had sent him on this dangerous mission to sharpen Nate's perspective on the Railroad and the Institute, but he obviously didn't intend Nate to be hurt.

Deacon knelt by Nate's side. "We going to let him have all the fun?"

Nate smiled. "Not at all," he assured, taking aim across the water.

* * *

Hancock realized Nate was gone the following morning. He hadn't been kind to himself, drinking and chemming his night away at the Third Rail, and he paid for it the next day. Hancock self-medicated with a shot of Med-X, much to Fahnreheit's disapproval.

He didn't want to leave Goodneighbor already, but he found in himself an incapacity for staying still. It had never been a problem before. Hancock had always been content to kick up his feet and watch over his town like a saint. Travelling with Nate had changed that. He didn't plan to go after Nate, not yet. Instead, with Nate gone, Hancock saw opportunity. He had his own questions to concur with.

Hancock was no Valentine, but he had a lead. He visited Irma at the Memory Den. She was still the gentle, elegant lady he remembered, lounging in the center of the room like a pre-war celebrity, the only beauty preserved from the bombs. She had always been a clever woman, but she hardened at the edges after Amari's death. Irma was still capable of operating the Memory Den on her own, but she turned away more customers and hired some mercenaries to guard the door.

MacCready was among them. He was taking a smoke break in one of the side rooms when Hancock came in. Hancock greeted him amiably. He liked MacCready, thought of him fondly as a younger brother, even though there couldn't have been too many years between them. Maybe it was because MacCready was fairly immature, or that he was in over his head in some kind of trouble with the Gunners. Something about trouble tickled Hancock's sentimental side.

"Hancock! Are you a customer?" At MacCready's shout, Kent Connolly peered out from the next room over, then withdrew and shut the door quietly, embarrassed.

"Me? Nah. Got my drug of choice, and it ain't the past." Hancock was a Mentats kind of ghoul. He'd told that to Nate, several times.

Irma granted him permission to search Amari's office. MacCready came along downstairs, equal parts bored and curious. The office of the late Doctor Amari had gone mostly undisturbed, save for a half-packed box in the corner. Irma could do with a new assistant, but she wasn't eager, and there were few technicians in the Commonwealth skilled enough to operate the loungers.

"You know how to work these things, MacCready?" It was an obvious question, but Hancock asked to make conversation. MacCready didn't know how to operate anything other than his rifle.

"Not a clue. I thought you weren't here as a customer?"

"That's right. I'm here for information."

"She kept her notes on the terminal there," Irma called from the doorway. She watched them with a melancholy smile.

Hancock pushed Amari's chair back, leaning over her desk as he scrolled through her terminal. Before she died, Amari had told Hancock about a doctor who fled the Institute. He needed to retrace Nate's steps, and for that, he needed Amari's notes.

Hancock found what he was looking for: a remote cave in the Glowing Sea, near the outskirts of the crater. Even for someone like Hancock, the idea of heading into the Glowing Sea wasn't thrilling. He would ask MacCready along if he weren't human. Besides, he didn't want to drag more people into this mess.

"Thanks, Irma." Hancock turned around to face them. MacCready, ever-nosy, looked over Hancock's shoulder to try to read the terminal, but Hancock switched off the screen. MacCready rolled his eyes and trekked back upstairs.

"Honey, I don't know what you're planning to do, but I can only advise you against it." Irma tried not to show it, but her worry bled through her words. A beautiful lady, Hancock reminded.

"I'll come back, Irma," he reassured.

"Oh, I know you will. You Goodneighbor boys are like radroaches. Always come out on top, no matter the size of the boot that steps on you." She left the empty office, returned to her lounge chair, still with a sad smile after Hancock went out the door.

Hancock told Fahrenheit of his plans before he left. He was wise enough not to shift her again, especially if she was the only authority keeping Goodneighbor on the map during his trips. She didn't want him to brave the Glowing Sea alone, but there wasn't enough anti-rad supplies for her in Goodneighbor, even if they ransacked Daisy's whole stock. She saw him out at the Old State House.

Hancock's journey to the south took a few days, and if he made good time on the return trip, he could be back within a week. It was a long distance to cross from Goodneighbor to the edge of the Glowing Sea, but he traveled faster alone, with fewer needs to eat and sleep. Surprisingly, he didn't prefer travelling alone. Nate was unkindly, but he was company, and Hancock liked what that Travis kid put on the radio.

A radstorm was already blowing in when Hancock reached Sea's edge. It was landmarked by the shirks of trees on the hills. The warmth of the Sea welcomed Hancock, but he knew how the saying went—_ too much of a good thing. _ He bought a gas mask from a caravan on the road. It wasn't much, but it helped ensure Hancock would still be the same ghoul when he came out.

Something glinted in the sun near a dead grove. Hancock cautiously approached. It was metal that caught the sun, a familiar face. Nick Valentine was half-buried in the dirt. He seemed dead for a long time. Hancock smoothed his coat, dug him out, making sure it was who he thought it was. Nobody else dressed the same tacky way that Nick did.

"What the hell?" If someone else had been here, their footprints had been washed away by rolling devils. The Sea was constantly shifted by gusts of wind that made waves in the dust. It ate the trees, the traces of people that journeyed too far, like Hancock, who feared he might be forgotten and dead if he stayed too long. Nothing like a blast site to remind a guy of his own mortality.

He reluctantly left Nick under the grove. If he ever had the opportunity, he would come back. Hancock tripped on something on the way out. It was a gun, one unlike any other he had seen before. Some advanced technology the Commonwealth wasn't capable of anymore. Hancock fired it experimentally, nearly losing himself on the kick. He understood why it didn't see much use: it turned a scuttling stingwing into a block of ice, and it handled worse than a flamer. The rounds were nothing like he'd ever seen, and Hancock figured this gun had limited shots. Still, for some extra security in the Glowing Sea, Hancock would take it.

He didn't encounter too much trouble. Ghouls outnumbered the wildlife population, but ferals didn't bother Hancock on his own. He found preachers of Atom in the crater. He wasn't surprised—the Children of Atom made a name for themselves in the wasteland, however unpopular and cooky they were, but Hancock sought them for help.

They told him the way to Virgil's cave. Mother Isolde, a skinny woman with red in her eyes, told Hancock that he wasn't the first to come asking after Virgil. Two men were here before. She described one of them as a metal man. Her account confirmed Hancock's thoughts. He had to wonder if that was Nate's work, but Hancock didn't really know what business Nick once had in the Glowing Sea.

He reached Virgil's cave with the help of the Children and Amari's notes. It was unguarded, and Hancock was fortunate enough to have avoided run-ins with nasty wasteland critters. He approached the mouth of the cave, but someone else came out.

A man in a hazmat suit. "Doctor Virgil?" called Hancock.

Hancock couldn't see his face beyond the suit, but he appeared surprised, and answered after a lengthy pause. "Mayor," he greeted coldly. His voice, muddled under the helmet, was eerily familiar. Hancock noticed at last the fresh blood on his shoes.

"Not Virgil, I take it," Hancock said grimly. He finally recognized that voice. It was low and commanding, difficult to forget. "I remember you. Nate brought you to the Den."

"Nate. My old friend. Guilty as charged." He drew his hands from behind his back. Hancock tensed, expecting a fight, but the man dropped a head on the ground at Hancock's feet. The dismembered head of a super mutant, who Hancock assumed was Virgil. "Hope you weren't here for him."

"That really necessary?"

Hancock was no stranger to violence nor brutality, but it wasn't any less unpleasant to see a guy's head separated from his body. A super mutant wasn't pretty. He had an expression of fear permanently scarred on his face.

"This? I get paid by the head. My employers don't have a lot of reach out here, so proof of the deed was necessary to get paid."

"And by 'employers,' you mean the Institute."

"Didn't say otherwise," Kellogg grunted, after introducing himself. Hancock remembered the name from Amari, days before she died. Conrad Kellogg terrified her. The whole ordeal surrounding Nate and Kellogg terrified her, and Hancock could sympathize. He never felt more uneasy than he did now.

However uneasy that was, Hancock didn't show it. "I came here for answers."

"Unlucky." Kellogg made to pass Hancock. Hancock didn't have a lot of faith that he could take Kellogg on, but he'd try if need be. Lazing around in Goodneighbor had made him too complacent. Even if it weren't the case, Hancock had never been a soldier, just a charismatic guy with a knife. Fortunately, Kellogg stopped a few feet away.

He walked with a noticeable limp. Hancock remembered the day he'd been given that limp, and he found satisfaction in the fact it never healed. He sighed and turned around, made a show of sitting on a stump, resting his bad leg, suddenly aged another hundred years with a weight on his back. He looked tired, the same way Nate looked tired, sometimes; a restlessness, an anxiety that shook the hands for days on end. Hancock could never bear the look of a haunted man.

"I guess I owe him for sparing me. So sit down, and I'll tell you what I know." Hancock sat. He knew a long story when he saw one. Virgil watched them from a yard away with a thousand yards in his eyes.

Hancock told Kellogg what he knew. About Nate, about the Institute, about Shaun. He was a good listener. In the end, when Hancock asked the million dollar question, Kellogg gravely shook his head.

"He's not a synth. But close. He's like me."

"How's that? From where I'm sitting, you're nothing like Nate."

Kellogg laughed. His laugh was hoarse and sincere. "Didn't mean it like that. Mayor, I've been around a long time. I'm less human than you are, but a little human, regardless. The Institute's never had a better operative on the surface than me. For lack of outside help, I was cybernetically enhanced to feel less pain, to live longer. Three implants, and one in my brain, so if I die, they can bring me back."

"Bring you back?"

"Think of it like saving data on a computer. The augmenter in my brain stores my memories. After that, if something were to happen to me, they can put me in one of their synths. It wouldn't really be me, but it'd have my memories. They watch me with it, too, see from my eyes. If I ever became insubordinate, they could pull the plug whenever they wanted."

It sounded like an awful deal, but Hancock was low on sympathy.

"And Nate…?"

"His case is special. Could the Director ever bear replacing his father with a synth? No, he couldn't. So he keeps an eye on Nate. Nate doesn't have the best track record. He's gone on this wild goose chase for his son more than a few times, and he's died a lot more. By the wasteland, by betrayal, by the Institute itself, once he finds them. If he finds them. Then they collect him. Put him on ice, resuscitate him, wipe his mind. Send him back to do it again.

"First time it happened, I killed him. Faced his son's wrath that day. Since then, we've faced off a few times, but he gets a little stronger each time they bring him back, a little smarter. Couldn't even kill him last time. He brought his friends. Believe that's how we met, Mayor." He nodded at Hancock.

"That's…"

Kellogg wasn't done. "The people like you, who figure it out, who see too much? They're taken care of. Loose ends for me to tie up. Doctor Virgil, for example, but he's been on the Institute's list for a long time. So happened that Nate led me right to him." _People like Doctor Amari, _Hancock filled in. He was disgusted. He didn't have the words to detail his disgust, how vast it was, stretching over his chest like film.

Kellogg stood. Since the last time they met, when Nate let him walk free, Kellogg had been lying low. He stayed out of the way of the Institute's plans when possible, and he encouraged Hancock to do the same.

"Do you know why they're doing it?"

Kellogg laughed. It was brief, and without humor. "I couldn't tell you why Father does anything." Hancock stood to meet him.

"Are you coming for me next? To tie up one of your 'loose ends'?"

Kellogg looked up, surprised. "Mayor, they don't need me to kill you. I'm sure any old Courser will do." This insult stuck with Hancock, who snapped and snarled, as if he'd finally gone feral.

Kellogg tucked Virgil's head under his arm. He disappeared into the Glowing Sea, chuckling as he went.

* * *

The raiders built a zipline across the sea. It would have been cool, if not for the sniper at the end of the line nearly blowing them out of the sky with a Fat Man. Deacon took him out with several careful shots. He had a passable aim, although it was obvious he was more suited to recon from the shadows than he was for frontline combat. _ After you, _Deacon said, gesturing to the lift.

X6 took care of the rest of the lackeys in the tower. Even as it had held for years, Nate still feared the supertanker would tip over and launch them into the irradiated sea. Combat armor made for hard swimming. He could sink to the bottom and rust and rot like one of these boats in the dockyard.

They congregated in the captain's cabin. Once again, X6 wanted to debrief them. He gave Nate something he called a reset code for the synth they were after. It would render him docile for X6 to safely transport him back to the Institute.

Deacon's distaste was obvious. Even X6 noticed. "Problem?" He faced Deacon, testing him. Nate didn't want to admit it, but X6 likely knew who Deacon was. Why he hadn't objected yet was anyone's guess, if that were the case.

"I'm just thinking that some mutual friends of ours won't be too happy, if we pull through with this."

He gave Nate a heavy side-eye. Nate nodded imperceptibly. X6, who smiled, displayed something close to amusement, more like reproach.

"I defer to your judgement, sir, as does Father." Mentioning Shaun was purposeful. He was reminding Nate of his loyalties.

"It seems wrong, somehow. Shutting him down feels inhumane."

"He's not a man, sir, he's a synth. A synth that's confused and dangerous." X6 requested he repeat the reset code to ensure Nate remembered it, leaving no margin for error. Nate did as asked. _ B5-92, initialize factory reset. Gamma-7-1-epsilon. _When phrased like that, Nate knew a human couldn't be put down like a machine, with a string of random letters and code words.

Nate tried to remember the things Desdemona taught him when he spent a week at HQ. She preached like the Children. She told Nate they ran missions in the Capital Wasteland years ago, freeing slaves from captivity, and Nate could understand that better, the freewill of an indentured man. Shaun hadn't delved deeply into the subject, who knew he had contact with the Railroad, but he had briefly disregarded the idea of synths having minds of their own. Then there was Nate's questions about his own nature.

He had been too distraught back then to understand Desdemona. He was still distraught now, just in different ways. When he looked at Deacon, he felt like he finally understood—not about synths, but Deacon, and Deacon's love for the cause he fought.

They broke above the cabin. The raider captain waited for them with two other men. B5-92, but he called himself Gabriel. Nate squinted at him across the floor. The fog didn't reach this high, and they were closer to the sky, the angry sun pulsating, a radiation storm encroaching on the horizon. Nate felt the sweat on his back thicker than he had their excursion up here.

He glanced once more at Deacon. It was enough for him to finalize his decision. Gabriel couldn't live, but he didn't have to be turned over into the Institute.

Nate sprinted across the shack before either side got a word in. The other men shouted and turned their guns towards Nate, but Deacon leapt into action, covering him from behind. Nate didn't have time for eloquence. He grabbed Gabriel by his shoulders and dragged him over the wall. Nate felt a sharp pain prick at his side before he dropped Gabriel from the top of the tower.

The fearful look in Gabriel's eyes was alive, too human. Nate felt like he made the right choice. X6 didn't agree. He cursed loudly as he took care of the remaining raiders. When he was done, he cornered Nate, not looking angry nor disappointed, but sounding irritated.

"That synth was a valuable piece of technology. You're going to have to explain this to Father." He called for the Relay to return him to the Institute, and left them alone on the shack with the dead.

Nate breathed out, hands on his knees. Suddenly, he smiled and began to laugh, startling even himself. It was born from relief, and he rode it out on his back until it left his system.

Deacon joined him on the ground. "Here, let me see. Looks like he got a knife in on his way out." Nate's side was bleeding. It was a shallow cut, and he was too pumped full of adrenaline to feel it. Deacon unrolled gauze from his pocket and carefully bandaged the wound, cleaning it with bottled water from Nate's pack. It looked like something he had done a hundred times before. Perhaps not with Nate, but for other Railroad agents.

Nate held until Deacon finished. For all the raiders they killed to get here, one knife wound was a lucky break. Nate attributed that mainly to X6's help. He never saw someone fight like a Courser did, and Nate was glad to be on the safe side of X6's laser rifle.

They both got to their feet. Nate walked to the end of the shack, staring out to sea. That radstorm looked foreboding, like a telling of things to come. After a minute, Deacon joined him at the edge.

"So, I promised we would compare notes, didn't I?"

Nate glanced over warily. "Do you trust me now?"

Deacon grinned. "Hey, you went out on a leap for me just now. I'm sorry about the way we've been. Not just me, but the Railroad. You kind of blindsided us, you know. But it's been no way to treat a friend. Travelling with you has reminded me of that." The sudden warmth in his words caught him off guard. Deacon was facing him with _admiration._ Ask Nate a few days ago and he'd say that wasn't possible.

Nate shared his experiences. Deacon already knew most of what Nate had to say, but he couldn't follow Nate into the Institute. The truth about the Director was news to him. It made Deacon more sympathetic to Nate's struggles, his hesitation to disobey X6-88. He told Deacon he thought he was seeing hallucinations, like the time back at Goodneighbor before he left.

Disappointingly, Deacon had less answers than he'd hoped for. The Railroad's speculation about Nate was little more beyond Tom's theories. Nate set off all of Tom's metal detectors, but Deacon didn't know what that meant in the grand scheme of things, especially once he knew Nate's relationship with the leader of the Institute. He thought Nate was being pulled along for a sick game, or being used as an Institute spy, a more obvious theory. He was even worried.

Deacon told Nate stories. Once, he and Nate went to the last Railroad HQ before the church, which had been sacked by the Institute—the Switchboard. They cleared it out together as Nate's initiation into the Railroad. Nate had been different then. A little dumber, a little more lost, but he had been Deacon's friend. They worked together for the better half of a year until Nate vanished in the Relay. He never came back, not as himself.

Deacon tried to soften his words. He looked sad, as if he'd lost a friend, but he sounded happy, as if he finally saw his old friend in Nate. Nate couldn't mourn for himself, not even on Deacon's behalf. It was hard to console someone who was still a stranger.

But they crossed the north together in a week. Maybe Deacon was more than a stranger.

"Will you be fine on your own?" The walk back to HQ wasn't insignificant. It went unsaid between them that Nate wouldn't be joining him. His business in Libertalia was concluded, and he was the closest thing to a confidant that they had. Deacon wouldn't want to stop him from "infiltrating" the Institute, whatever his true intentions were.

Deacon assured him. "Yeah, boss, I'll be fine. I usually am." The resigned tone of his voice wasn't lost on Nate. He tried to say something, but in the end, he only nodded. Deacon needed time. Nate couldn't bring back half a year on merit alone. Especially when Nate still had unanswered questions.

He needed to talk to Shaun.

* * *

**Principe: Thank you so much for your comment, it makes me so happy knowing you enjoyed the chapter. I had a lot of fun writing Fahrenheit and I definitely look forward to writing her more in future chapters! She's become a huge favorite of mine, too. I replayed Bobbi No-Nose's quest semi-recently, and realized how COOL she was. **


	12. Familiar Faces, Part Two

Shaun was the first to greet Nate back from Libertalia. Nate headed to the stairs as soon as he relayed back, slowing his steps around the main atrium so the scientists wouldn't catch him running, then eagerly threw the door open to the Director's quarters. He and Shaun had only been recently reunited, and he hated long trips away.

Shaun was studiously polite. He regarded Nate with approval for a successful mission—technically semi-successful, Nate was aware, but Shaun didn't mention Gabriel's death. Runaway Institute property wasn't as important as seeing Nate return safely. Shaun struggled to express himself, but what was left unsaid etched itself into his crow's feet and tired smile.

Shaun invited Nate to lunch. They ate in the Director's lounge, taking either side of the couch, a Gen 1 synth delivering food to the door. Nate turned up his nose at the Institute's idea of a meal. He was reminded too much of military rations, and he contemplated Tinker Tom's warnings about microscopic robots in the food, as incredulous as that was. He politely declined a nutrition bar, claiming his stomach was still full on this morning's mirelurk stew.

Shaun made him coffee as a compromise. He didn't prepare coffee like Desdemona, but like Codsworth: with heavy cream, at one hundred seventy-three point-five degrees Fahrenheit, as if he simply knew, "brewed to perfection." Shaun served them with glasses. Nate had come here for answers, not for lunch, but he bit down his questions in favor for a moment of peace.

Shaun refrained from Nate on the sofa, precariously seated closest to the door. He distinctively hunched his shoulders, swiveled his eyes around the room but never looked at Nate, and around his glass, his hands barely trembled. Nate wondered—Could he be just as nervous?

He spoke up between them, startling Nate from his thoughts. "Was it difficult for you?" He bore his mouth around the cusp of his glass, sipping loudly. After a pause, he elaborated. "At Libertalia?"

Nate wondered what he meant. "Killing is never easy."

Shaun nodded, accepting his answer. They fell into another quiet.

The soldier in him wanted to take pride in Shaun's commendations, but an unsuppressable itch from the inside reminded him to take no pleasure in killing others. That was also the soldier in him, he supposed. By now, Nate had adapted to the Commonwealth's regular blood-letting. Adapting was made easier with his experiences in Anchorage, but it didn't remove the guilt that came from killing a man, and it didn't erase his humanity. That was the difference between him and the raiders at Libertalia, men like Gabriel who left corpses on his front door.

Once more, Nate wondered. Did synths understand the concept of humanity?

Nate wanted to turn to Shaun for that, but he could assume Shaun's response too easily. Shaun dismissed all notions of humanity in synths. That coincided with the Brotherhood, who took it further and declared synths abominations, but the Railroad starkly disagreed. He marveled at how split the Commonwealth was about synths. Truly, what _was_ a synth? Could they be more than their masters intended?

Libertalia was meant as a lesson for Nate, but he hadn't learned anything. Or if he had, it wasn't the lesson Shaun intended. He seemingly preferred Nate drawing his own conclusions about the world. It made Nate feel like a child.

Once more, Shaun disrupted his thoughts. "I had a room prepared for you. Would you like to see it?"

"A room for me?"

"Yes, father, that's correct. I know we haven't discussed whether or not you'll be staying with us, but I want you to know you have a place here. I won't attempt to remove your free spirit." Shaun's smile was pulled taut.

"I don't mind staying." Shaun's hunched shoulders finally unraveled. All this time he had been nervous, but Nate had passed an unspoken test.

"That's good to hear. However, you've proven yourself a great fieldworker, and I believe going as you please suits us all—"

"Do you want me to stay here?" Nate blurted.

Shaun was shocked. "Yes, I do. Is that so hard to believe?"

As much as he tried to suppress his doubts, sometimes Nate wondered if the possibilities Hancock posed were true, if this older man wasn't the son he once lost. He wondered if all the hatred of the Institute was justified. Nate was the first outsider to see the Institute for himself, but it still kept many mysteries from him. The Institute _and_ Shaun. His suspicions were distant. However, their existence spoke bounds.

Guiltily, he said nothing. He excused himself after coffee, leaving to see the room prepared as aforementioned. Directly one floor down, it was meticulously clean and organized, but impersonal. The stretch between the bed and bathroom was uninterrupted, and someone hung ugly abstract paintings above the desk. Still, it was a place for him, and Nate was grateful.

Someone blocked the door. A familiar face from Libertalia, designation X6-88, entered silently. Nate was sent halfway to the grave with shock once he turned to leave. "Father has another assignment for you when you're ready," greeted X6.

Nate clutched his chest. "Couldn't he tell me that himself?" he asked incredulously.

"He has an appointment to attend to, but he has asked me to extend his apologies." X6 added, impatiently, "The assignment, sir." Nate deflated. He was certain Shaun was avoiding him. Maybe it was untrue, maybe even unfair, but he gave Nate no reason to believe otherwise. His window to question Shaun had passed for the time being.

X6 directed him to BioScience for further mission details. Job done, he lingered at the door, uncharacteristically hesitant. Nate frowned. "X6?"

"Sir, I wanted to discuss something privately."

Nate sighed, immediately annoyed. "Is this about Libertalia? You already scolded me."

"No, sir. This is unrelated." Nate motioned for him to go on. "How do you remember something you've forgotten?"

Nate was startled. He tenderly sat on the edge of his bed, giving some thought to the question.

After Libertalia, on the shack with Deacon as the storm came in, that same question poured out from the walls. Camping with Hancock and feeling strange moments of déjà vu. Sometimes he felt a great, terrible absence in his mind where these people once had been. Then there was the question that precedented: _How could you forget?_

"I guess… I suppose I'd retrace my steps." An old trick but a goodie, one for misplacing keys or a wallet. Nate had never "misplaced" something so important before.

He looked up. The doorway was empty, the room except for himself.

* * *

Nate retraced his steps all the way back to Goodneighbor.

The ghoul folk still gave him odd side-eyes, avoiding him when he came close and whispering nasty remarks at his back, but he felt less animosity. Last time he was here, he took the mayor out of town with no forewarning. In fact, Nate never seemed to come to Goodneighbor on good circumstances or leave under good circumstances.

He stopped first at the Old State House, but he didn't go in, watching the balcony. Nobody was giving a speech today. Relieved, Nate headed downstairs for a drink.

The Third Rail wasn't discerning of its visitors no matter their reputation in town. The bouncer let him pass on a warning alone. Nate, who came here during his previous visit to town, remembered the singer on stage and her voice in the walls, leaving echoes down the old subway tunnels. He shuffled past the quiet patrons to get to the bar.

The Mister Handy at the counter greeted Nate like an old pal. He shook his knobby eyes when Nate reached for his caps. "First one's on the house. Consider it a little thanks for taking care of my rat problem."

"Rats? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, me? I'm just shootin' the breeze, guv." He spun away to grab Nate a beer. Nate was confused, but he wouldn't turn down a free drink.

He was joined after one beer and two glasses of scotch. Nate tried to ignore his unwelcome company, but Hancock made a show of reaching across his seat and clapping down on his back, startling Nate out of his glass.

"Hancock!" Nate coughed. He didn't expect to miss Hancock in his own town, but he'd hoped for some downtime. Why else did anyone come to Goodneighbor if not to get lost for a while? Nate had yet to drink up his stupor.

"You came back." Nate shrugged off his arm.

"Should I leave?" He glanced back, afraid the bouncer had been called. Nate knew they hadn't parted on the best of terms.

However, it wasn't Hancock's intention to shake him down. "No, you… brother, you can stay. I just have a few things to say." He showed a new emotion—new for Hancock at least, who was always unflappable. It was guilt, written clear in every inch of his ugly face.

Nate interrupted him. "I'll buy you a drink."

"You'll buy me a drink?" Hancock repeated. He acted like he hadn't heard Nate clearly.

Nate waved Charlie over, avoiding Hancock's inquisitive gaze. He didn't know what business Hancock had looking so sorry, but he didn't want to dwell on it. Deacon's apology at Libertalia still sat wrong with Nate's conscience. Maybe it was some sort of complex, but being the object of someone's admiration made his teeth itch.

Fortunately, Hancock's grin was far too villainous for Nate to worry about it being a problem. He opted for a safer subject. "What do you drink?"

"Not really my poison of choice—" as Nate rolled his eyes, Hancock relented, leaning over Nate's glass and squinting. "I'll have whatever you're having."

Nate passed a handful of caps over. Whitechapel Charlie, who knew he was serving the mayor, let Nate keep his money again. The point of buying Hancock a drink was defeated when Hancock owned the bar, but he was kind enough not to mention it. He popped a handful of Mentats into his scotch and stirred with his pinky until they turned fuzzy.

Nate tried not to gag. "That _can't_ be good."

"Don't knock it, brother." He passed the glass over for Nate to try.

Nate usually refused, but he eased up enough for one sip, immediately regretting it. His gums starting aching as if they bled, and his tongue sat like sandpaper in his mouth. However, the world had come into clearer focus. He never tried Mentats before despite Hancock's strong advocacy. He remembered when Psycho first rolled out to aid the men in Anchorage, but that was the extent of Nate's chem experience.

"I don't feel high," Nate realized. "I feel… I think I feel—"

"Smart, right?" He nodded. "That's what I'm talking about, brother."

Hancock offered him the rest of his chem cocktail. Nate smartly refused, which was probably the aid of the Mentats. "Do you always feel like this?"

"Probably not as hard as you're feeling it," Hancock chuckled. Nate had heard Hancock laugh before, but it was a long time since he was genuine. His laughter carried that familiar ghoulish gravel, as deep as his voice, making Nate's chest rumble. These Mentats amplified everything. Nate curled his fingers under the table hard into his palms.

Nate recalled other memories of his service that were murky before. Suddenly excited, he shared them with Hancock. He spoke quickly and articulately, with portentous words he didn't normally use. Hancock reclined and listened attentively.

Patrons slowly cleared out of the bar_. _Nate was trickling down from a varied retelling of a popular folktale his squad had passed around—Sergeant Daniels and a handful of privates had gone MIA, and their bodies were never recovered. A rumor about aliens abducting the missing soldiers started up after somebody claimed they saw strange lights in the sky one night. Nate thought it was just a tall tale to get their minds off the horrors of war, but its retelling was always fun: the theatrics, _"And when he looked up… he saw them! Big-headed green monsters, scooping the sergeant into their spaceship!" _Then Nate made wild hand gestures and mimicked the sounds of alien blasters to add drama.

Whitechapel Charlie occasionally yammered at them for being too loud and drowning out Magnolia's singing voice. She was finishing her last song for the night, a song Nate recognized from the time of his deployment. Wartime blues never went out of style, now recycled from earlier days when the women needed a tune to send their husbands off to. The world had changed, but the music stayed the same.

Hancock sat up after Nate finished speaking. For a moment, when he'd been so engrossed in Nate's stories, he could have believed Hancock had quietly died in the stool beside him. He supposed it was the face. Always hard to tell what Hancock was thinking, harder to tell if he was even alive.

"I wanted to apologize for before," admitted Hancock, in the space between verses.

Nate hesitated. "I realized that. Can't say I know why." They had both been jerks in their own way.

Hancock looked like he struggled with the words. A moment passed, and he gave up. They both agreed to drop it for now. Enough time had passed, and their previous argument felt misconstrued and silly.

Nate was content to sit in silence, but it wasn't long before Hancock spoke up again. "Any chance you wanna get back together and hit the road?"

"So you're asking this time?" Hancock laughed. Nate didn't immediately reject him, but the possibility was still strong. "Can you just leave Goodneighbor? Aren't you the mayor?"

"I've walked out of here plenty of times. Keeps me honest. Can't let power get to my head." There was something more. Nate leaned over, trying to puzzle Hancock's reasons from his brow.

"Why do you want to come with me?"

Hancock answered. "I want to see the end of this."

"The end of what?" Even as he asked, it seemed he understood. Fahrenheit had said the same in simpler words. Nate was rushing into trouble, and they had a stake in it. Most of the Commonwealth wouldn't look Nate in the eye because they all saw where his road was leading.

Hancock was different this time. He was kinder, the same kindness from the night they laughed over Boston International. Nate yearned for kindness. He wanted someone to acknowledge his struggles, to hear his stories. As presumptuous as it was, Nate felt the weight of the world on his shoulders; not their current world, but _his_ world, the world they all outlived while he'd been in cryosleep. Could they retrace their steps far enough to get back to what they left behind?

Why Nate cared now, he didn't know. The Mentats expanded his mind to the thoughts he kept in the dark. He preferred them there, where there was less danger of becoming overburdened by melancholy.

Hancock cleared his throat, gaining Nate's attention. "I'll watch your back. Whatever's waiting for you, you won't face it alone." Was he that readable, or did Hancock really know more than he let on?

"I'll sleep on it," he finally said. Hancock accepted his answer.

They left the Third Rail at an indiscriminate hour, the low wind and the tired night awaiting upstairs, the streets spotted with men who had nowhere to go. Hancock was extending his usual offer of a free bed when Nate suddenly cried out, ducking to the ground.

Hancock startled. "You alright, brother? Too much to drink?"

Nate shook his head. He glanced up fervently. Nate worried he almost ran into something, and he almost_ had_—someone's gold-tipped shoes were dangling above the door.

He whispered, "Do you see that?" A man was hanging from the rails. Nate couldn't see his face, but not for lack of trying. The man's exact features were unclear, as if obscured in a blurry window, but Nate recognized him from his earlier vision. This time was just as lucid. Unfortunately, not even the addicts in the alleys reacted like they were seeing dead people.

"See what?" Hancock followed Nate's gaze, but he noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

Instead, Nate asked, "Did Goodneighbor ever hang anyone?"

"Damn right it has. We hung the last mayor. Same place you're lookin', actually." Nate described the man on the rail, but Hancock shook his head. "No, Vic didn't look like that. Guy was ugly enough to be a ghoul, but he had none of the charm."

Hancock, for his credit, didn't treat Nate like he was crazy. "Did he have a girl?"

"Vic? Not a chance. Whole town hated him." Nate distinctly remembered a girl on the balcony last time, but she wasn't here.

Nate really felt drunk now. The ground was coming closer to meet him on the steps. Hancock grabbed his elbow before he fell. Nate was a big guy, especially compared to a ghoul, so it couldn't have been easy. "Get inside. I've got some Jet to calm you down."

"That's enough chems," Nate retorted, sounding accusatory.

"Don't look at me," Hancock griped. He didn't know anyone who tripped on Mentats.

He helped Nate around the corner and into the Old State House. Nate looked over his shoulder in an attempt to catch the hanging victim once more but the door shut behind them. Nate never saw someone hang before. He couldn't fathom how Hancock could do that to a man, could go through the whole mortifying process to the end. The illusion was just that—an illusion, but it provided him an unexpected insight into Hancock's past.

They went upstairs, avoiding the usual room for drifters to stop at the office instead. Fahrenheit appeared behind Hancock's death. She never slept, Nate realized in horror.

As he was pushed down towards the couch, he said, "Are you still sure you want to travel with me?" The question wasn't easily heard under the trepidation that shook his words.

Nate didn't wait for Hancock's answer. He shoved his face into the armrest as their voices carried over the room. He worried he would lose his mind if he stayed awake any longer, so he forced himself to count his breathing until he fell asleep.


	13. Building a Better Crop, I

The next morning, Nate agrees to take Hancock back out on the road.

Hancock is thrilled, but it's Fahrenheit who surprises them by insisting she also come along on their (one-off, Nate insisted) adventure. She packs six weeks worth of supplies and carries her modified minigun. Nate informed her they wouldn't be gone for that long, but she was just as obliged to listen to him as Hancock was; which was to say "not at all."

Hancock announced his leave with a speech. The townspeople weren't happy to see their mayor off again, but they were cheering by the end of Hancock's spout on the balcony. Hancock has a way with people. Nate can't deny it. The more time they spent together, the more he wondered if Hancock's charisma was beginning to get to him too.

They leave town to high appraisal. The other side of Goodneighbor's front gate feels like another world once they get far enough to miss the town's uproar. The ruined streets of North End were growing familiar to Nate, who has returned to Scollay Square so many times he doesn't need a map to guide him.

"Where to?" asks Hancock. Nate had described the route in detail to Fahrenheit, but Hancock must have been high at the time.

Nate checked his Pip-Boy. The area outside North End was less familiar to him. "Southeast," he finally replied. "Ever been to Spectacle Island?"

"Doesn't ring a bell." Fahrenheit grunted, peering over their shoulders.

"If we're going to an island, prepare for mirelurks," she warns.

The notion sits weakly in his gut. Nate ate enough mirelurk during his excursion with Deacon to never consider anything vaguely seafood for the rest of his life. "We'll be passing by. I went to Spectacle Island once, you know, a long time ago. They used to dump Boston's garbage there, but it was turned into a park."

"Probably a dump again," Hancock noted. "We going to a park?"

"Only if you want. We're going to a farm." Doctor Isaac Karlin had given him a pressed seed packet set to deliver to Roger Warwick. Personally, he didn't know how to feel about this mission. Doctor Karlin's limited intel had left him with trepidation.

It must show on his face, because Hancock knocks against his shoulder to rouse him. "Tell me about the park." He pops two fingers of Grape Mentats under his tongue. Nate knows the distraction for what it is. Gratefully, he dredges up memories of a sunset from a ferry, half-real and half-imagined.

Warwick Homestead wasn't a six week trip, but the trip wasn't short, either. They made a third of the way on the first day. Fahrenheit set up camp quicker than Nate could reach for his bag, and they settled under an old highway for the night. Nate found an abandoned scrapyard five miles to their right on a quick patrol around camp, and Hancock mentioned a castle closer to the coast. Behind them, Boston was no more than a dim orange glow.

Nate laid his bedroll near the fire. "A castle?" Despite the sundown hours ago, tonight was sickly warm. Fahrenheit was heating up razorgrain stew in a big, broiling pot.

Hancock whittled with a knife in his hands, sat across from him. "Minutemen used to hold it. Heard that sea monsters chased them out." He was scary in the lowlight. Nate had trouble determining whether it was purposeful, the way Hancock's face flexed menacingly down at his fingers, or if the shadows were to blame, and Nate's own unease.

Nate tried recalling the area. He had two lives to go off from, but neither of them lead Nate down these roads very often. "Fort Independence? I don't remember anything about monsters."

"That's the Minutemen. They attract trouble wherever they—woah, brother, would you look at that!"

The radstorm from the south was too far away to be a threat, but they took notice of it on the journey; growing since the days past, bunched over the beginning of the Glowing Sea like a crooked man on his last tethers, it watched their progress across the Commonwealth. The sky suddenly crackled. The noise of thunder was so loud they caught it from here. Nate had seen radstorms before, they all had, but Hancock and Fahrenheit agreed that this one was different.

Fahrenheit set down a bowl of soup before Nate, interrupting the reverie. "Time to eat."

Hancock tries to argue against the bowl she also gives him. Nate doesn't realize why until he tastes a spoonful for himself. His mouth is set ablaze with a sensation similar to what he imagines being stung in the tongue by a radscorpion feels like.

He's scrutinized heavily by Fahrenheit, who waits for his reaction. Nate manages to smile. "It's _great!"_ He isn't at all convincing, but the pleased look on her face is worth it.

His mouthful is spat out as soon as she turns her back. Truthfully, nothing about the stew _tastes_ bad; it's the spiciness that equates to swallowing twenty jalapeño peppers at once. Nate finds that his radscorpion theory isn't far off. Hancock leans over, thoroughly amused, and tells him Fahrenheit uses radscorpion glands in most of her cooking. Her casseroles aren't half bad, he says.

It serves as enough excitement for the rest of the night. Nate settles down into his bedroll. Fahrenheit sits on a tree stump with her minigun, keeping watch. Hancock reaches over the fire pit to tap Nate's shoulder. They killed the fire after dinner, but the smell of smoke that remains plugs up his nose.

"Hey, brother. Mind if we make a detour to Diamond City after your delivery job?" Nate doesn't mind, but Hancock's suddenly nervous, and the change invigorates his curiosity.

"Ghouls aren't allowed in Diamond City." It's more of a question.

Hancock gestures dismissively. "I got a plan for that." It isn't Nate's business to pry, but Hancock throws him a bone. "Just got a friend to check in on, that's all."

"Nick?" he guesses. Nate knows Hancock and Nick are acquaintances, although he doesn't remember why he knows.

He returns a nod towards Nate. His fingers are prodding at the twig stumps in the empty fire pit, unbothered by the heat, for Hancock is as twitchy as always. Nate idly wonders what he was whittling before. He sees Hancock's knife shine from his pocket and gets a shiver: it's the same knife that was once put through Nate's hand, without a single scar left for the memory. Hancock always has that knife with him. It's as persistent as his frock coat, as his silly tricorn hat.

"Sure," Nate answers. He files a trip to Diamond City in the back of his mind.

They stick to the coast for the rest of the week. The coast is safer than the wilderness, regardless of the occasional mutated crab that crossed their paths. The wasteland down south becomes marshy and uneven, but the prevailing heat makes things worse. Summer was rolling in harder this year than any summer Nate has experienced before. It turns the air humid and noxious.

Bottles of clean water are passed between Fahrenheit and Nate, and they require more breaks on the road when the heat reaches its peak. Hancock is mildly affected. Nate jokes that he prefers this to Anchorage, but it's a close draw.

The wind is stronger along the beachline. It wasn't a particularly cool wind, but the change from the marsh was refreshing. They sat down with a couple packs of Fancy Lads before making the rest of the walk to Warwick Homestead.

Warwick Homestead was a tato and mutfruit farm built into the ground floor of an old sewage plant. The farm was unique for how it thrived with the excess of fresh fertilizer; unfortunately, fresh fertilizer didn't smell pleasant. Nate pulled a bandana over his nose, ignoring how Hancock said it made him look like a bandit. The Warwick family had two children playing on the beach while the adults tilled the fields.

Hancock stayed behind at Nate's request. An armed entourage would bring too much attention to a mission that ought to be covert, but Nate mistook Fahrenheit for being the less conspicuous of the two. She leaned against the farmhouse with her wire-crossed minigun, garnering fearful stares from the kids. To Nate's back, she goaded, "Don't keep us waiting, little pawn!"

Nate turned white. Hancock would make fun of him for it later.

He goes inside to find Roger, but Roger finds him first, calling him over. "Didn't run into too much trouble coming out here, I hope?"

"Some bloodbugs chased me halfway across the Commonwealth, but I made it." Roger breaks into a knowing smile.

Nate is taken on a tour of the homestead. They duck behind the farmhouse and huddle together as Nate passes over the modified seeds. He only partially understood Doctor Karlin's explanation of BioScience's plant mutation experiment, but he knows the food they grow in the Institute is pure of radiation. Roger's tight face twists with a mixture of happiness and unease.

There's a situation on the farm. Roger Warwick, undercover Institute synth, was catching suspicion from his family. He's worried about a conspiracy. He needs Nate's help to keep his cover, starting with tracking down the head conspirator: a family friend who ran off to Goodneighbor a few days ago.

Roger is called back to work by his wife. June Warwick looks like a woman who's worried that her husband isn't who he says he is. Nate returns to Hancock and Fahrenheit. He's aware of the suspicious glares the Warwicks give him on his way out.

"Did I hear that right?" Hancock's voice is dropped to a whisper. "Is that a synth?"

Nate shrugged. "Seems that way."

"And you're helping him?"

Nate only listened to Roger. His head is swarming with the complications of this mission, and he feels like Shaun picked the wrong person for this. Maybe Shaun thought this was a simple delivery job. Maybe it's another one of his unspoken tests, in which Nate is unsure he's going to pass.

"I don't like it." Hancock speaks firmly, but he's eagerly looking to Nate for his reaction. He doesn't pass judgement. Nate feels like Hancock is open to hear his opinion, and he appreciates his patience, the chance to catch his breath and _think._

Fahrenheit acts a little pushier, but she isn't actively trying to make Nate piss his pants this time. "If he's a replacement, what do you think they did with the real Roger Warwick?"

"I'm sure Shaun has an explanation." The answer sounds hollow, even to his own ears.

"That so? Let's hear it." Hancock shakes his head and crosses his arms. "Things like this is where the Institute earns its bad name."

Nate falls quiet. It hurts to admit, but they're right. "We can't go through with this. What should we do?"

The culmination of Nate's doubts against Shaun and the Institute breaks over his head like an iced water bath. The relieved look Hancock shows Nate is, too, worth it.


	14. Building a Better Crop, II

Nate's dreams were always few and far between, back when he didn't have anything to dream of. Lately it feels as if his dreams and reality are coalescing into one. He doesn't know if he's truly awake on nights like this, when he wakes up in a place different from where he fell asleep.

Warwick Homestead has a murky view of Boston Harbor. The foul air blowing in from the plant stops short of the beach, which he supposes why the Warwick kids like to play out here. It's late and Nate is alone. The moonlight fragmentates on the water. The illusion boggles Nate's mind, who almost trips over himself trying to get to shore.

A thin, wiry hand claps his back roughly. "Easy, now." Hancock has snuck up behind him enough times that Nate knows him without having to look—and Hancock's voice, like most ghouls, is distinctive.

Nate's feet are wet. Toes in the sand, edging along the coastline; Nate isn't fully dressed. He feels warm on one side, as if he just crawled out of his bedroll. The Warwicks had not been eager to let some strangers camp near their farm, but Nate's caps had turned them around for the night. The tarberry field was yards away. Nate expects Fahrenheit to be at Hancock's heel, but he can't see her.

"She's keepin' watch." Hancock can read his mind. Mentats do incredible things.

But Hancock isn't high. Nate can tell from an unascertained, but strained look in Hancock's eyes. It's a talent by its own right, since Hancock doesn't have an easy face to read. Nate has traveled enough with Hancock to know some of his expressive tells. Hancock pinches his brow when he's worried. He grins when he's angry, and looks surprised when he's happy.

"You'll get a unibrow like that," Nate tries to tease, voice coarse. Hancock doesn't have eyebrows.

Hancock offers him water. Nate almost sniffs it to make sure it's not drugged or poisoned, but he trusts Hancock more than he did a month ago. It would be stupid not to trust Hancock at this point, with all the times in a day he's vulnerable. His hesitance is not Hancock's fault: Nate is paranoid about everything, carries too much worry and can't put it down.

Hancock says he was sleepwalking. He swallows, eyes red, and starts choking. Hancock smooths his palm over Nate's back until he gets his water down.

"What's _happening_ to me?" Nate's outburst is sudden. He presses his knees into the sand, allowing the slow waves to lap at his sides. The water bottle is gingerly pulled from his hands. His whole face prickles. Nate has been carrying this mania for a while. His immediate reaction is to feel shame, but Hancock doesn't judge him.

Nate is joined on the sand with minor griping. Hancock's coat is already worn out without catching dirt, carrying years' worth of stains that even all of the Abraxo in the world couldn't save. If that coat truly belonged to the original John Hancock, Nate feels like this level of unkempt is on par with desecration.

"Brother, let it all out."

Nate doesn't cry. He tries to, but the tears refuse to break over his eyes. He laughs instead, his same laughter from Libertalia returning with enough force to leave him breathless. It feels good. His situation isn't very funny, but laughing like a madman drains most of his tension away.

Silence falls between them when he finishes laughing, but he doesn't fill it. It's usually Hancock who talks a lot, too much, but Hancock relaxes, pushed up on his elbows in the sand. Nate glances over. Hancock's silhouette angles against the stars and his eyes fill with mirth. He sends Nate a wide, warm smile. The longer Nate looks, the wider his smile becomes.

"Hey, brother. Know what I'm thinking?"

Nate doesn't know what's on Hancock's mind most of the time. He freezes over with a poker face sometimes, or he throws on a beguiling act and transforms into an entirely different person. Hancock is never _dishonest,_ but he can be two-faced, three-faced, as many faces as a hydra.

"What?"

"I think you're in desperate need of a friend."

Nate chuckled stiffly. "Is that what we are? Friends?"

Nate hasn't been kind to Hancock. Of course, Hancock hasn't been kind to him either. It's hard to think of Hancock as a friend. Then again, it's hard not to consider him Nate's friend. When they weren't at each other's throats, Hancock was patient with Nate and kind to him. Nate could trust Hancock with his life on the road. He feels like Hancock understands him in a way no one else has. It scares him a little sometimes.

"I shared my Mentats with you. Ain't that right? And I only reserve those for my friends."

"You hand out chems all the time."

"Not my Mentats!"

That got another laugh from Nate. Hancock is surprisingly good at making him smile. He says things that Nate finds stupid most of the time, but he's the most charismatic person Nate has ever met and he always seems genuine.

"Storm's getting closer," Hancock notices. He raises his hand over the sky and squints at the horizon. Nate looks over in time to see lightning strike Spectacle Island.

The stars glow in the whiplash. Streaks of green fill the spaces in-between like a tree being uprooted, and in its absence the sky is peeled back, opened up. The waves retaliate by rising on the rocks. The scene unfolds at a distance but he still scrambles backwards on his ass, his back on the shore. The storm _is_ far away—but much closer than this afternoon, last night, yesterday, and the week before. It sits around them now, spread out like a second layer of the sea.

The hairs on Nate's arms stand to attention. His Geiger counter starts ticking.

"That's not good." Hancock is staring at Nate's Pip-Boy.

"Not good," Nate agrees.

The Warwicks come pouring out of the farmhouse with their kids. Nate wasn't the only one spooked; the thunder clash woke everyone up. Fahrenheit isn't far behind from the others. She immediately finds them on the beach.

"Damn storm. Are you both alright?"

"Ask that again in a coupla hours," Hancock answered.

"We won't be here in a couple hours." Fahrenheit turned to Nate pointedly.

Nate realizes she's waiting for his input. "Oh, no—I mean, _yeah,_ you're probably right. We should get out of here." He sounds unsure. After all, they haven't even decided what they're going to do about the Warwick job. But that storm is awfully foreboding, and Nate decides the rest can wait.

Nate called out to Roger. "We'll be leaving now, sir! Enjoy the melons!"

"Wait!" Roger tried scrambling over, but his sleeping gown and slippers don't tread well on a muddy field. "You're still doing the job, right?"

Nate looked back at Hancock, who silently shook his head. "I'm sorry, but—"

"Don't go! I'll be telling your superiors about this!"

Nate winced. He really hoped Shaun didn't consider himself Nate's superior.

Strong southern winds are carrying the radstorm to Massachusetts quicker than they can evade it. Nate's Geiger counter picks up after every gust, so he tosses Fahrenheit a bottle of Rad-X just to be safe. They get a mile down the road, and when Nate glances back, Warwick Homestead is engulfed in dust. Spectacle Island has been swallowed by the storm.

A trip back to Goodneighbor would take days, and Nate doesn't think they have more than hours. Hancock is on the same wavelength.

"Can we wait this thing out in Goodneighbor?"

"Not a lot of places underground." Hancock sports a frown. "Never had a problem with rads back home, y'know?"

"Don't suppose you know a place, Nate," Fahrenheit interjects. She sounds relatively calm given the situation. They don't really know how dangerous this storm is—if at all.

Nate thinks about it. He could return to the Institute at any time, but it would be wrong to abandon his friends. And he _does_ know a place they can take refuge in. "But we're not going to make it. Not on foot."

Nate starts looking around as if the answer will suddenly materialize on the hills. Today must be his lucky day, because that's all but what actually happens. A glimmer appears on the west, which Nate dimly recalls from a scrapyard they camped by two nights ago.

It's not a scrapyard: they hike to an old Red Rocket, but it's also not abandoned. The Red Rocket is now a home to a group of greasers. They almost don't notice the three approaching, eyes on the sky. They introduce themselves as the Atom Cats.

The leader, Zeke, greets them with apprehension. "Nosebleed, what do you think you're doing out here? This is Atom Cat territory." He reminds Nate a little of Deacon.

The other Atom Cats gather around Nate and his friends. He starts off feebly. "This is going to sound crazy, but…" They all share Zeke's apprehension by the time Nate is done talking. Nate doesn't know what to expect. It isn't often he runs into a gang of _anyone_ besides Gunners or raiders.

Rowdy immediately turns him down. "Slick outta luck, buster. We got Power Armor here and that's it. It's the best bet you got for a storm like that. Slap on some lead plating and you'll be smooth as kittens in the rads."

"Too bad we don't got enough suits for you and your friends," Bluejay interjects.

They're obviously on edge. Nate doubts these greasers are willing to go above and beyond for a few strangers, but he has to try. "Look, we can work something out." He begins reaching into his pockets. "If it's caps you want—"

Hancock steps in and saves the day. "Call it a favor. You do this for us, and you got yourself an IOU from the mayor of Goodneighbor." Nate almost breaks down in relief. Hancock is far better at these things than he is. "That storm's no skin off my back, but my friends aren't as lucky. They're good as dead out here. I can see that you're all too cool to be murderers."

The gang is uniquely charmed. Pointing out their "coolness" apparently hits the sweet spot. Nate wonders how Hancock does it. "Well, there's one thing," Rowdy admits, "but I don't know if it's going to work. You're really yanking our chains, buster."

She led them around the garage. The Cats keep a _lot_ of scrap, but it all obviously serves a purpose: Power Armor frames in the works and busted robots in line for repairs, smoking generators and cluttered worktables. Amidst the scrap was the creme de la creme, a Chryslus Highwayman.

Nuclear fallout left her looking worse for wear. Her trunk is missing, the interior is covered in scratches, and a hundred car washes couldn't scrub away those layers of grime. Nate thinks she's perfect.

He hears Hancock murmur next to his left ear. "You got that look on your face." They're words only Nate is supposed to pick up. Nate swats around his left side, like batting away a fly.

"Don't go getting that look on your face," Rowdy interjects. Nate wants to look in a mirror.

"Will it drive?"

"I'd say maybe. Never tried it myself. You know how these old things work?"

"It's all electric-powered." Nate knows. "Runs on replaceable fuel cells."

"Batteries," she agreed. "Well, the flow of power is regulated by a fuel cell controller. This one's almost busted. One bad spin and it croaks, and you're stuck in the dust. I never got around to repairing it, and we don't have time to do it now."

"But will it drive?" She shrugged. It was the best answer Nate would get. "Okay. That's good enough. Anything else?"

"Well… she could sure use a paint job."

Despite being pressed for time, the Cats gather around with paint guns and spray the Atom Cats' logo on the door. Nate has to admit, it looks pretty cool. Zeke finishes with a line of flames around the wheels. Rowdy gives him the car keys when they're done, and a pair of over-sized fuzzy dice hang on the chain.

"Probably for the best," she says, but she's obviously reluctant to part with the Highwayman. Nate doesn't think he could do it in her shoes. "I don't even know how to drive."

He slid behind the wheel. Hancock followed through the passenger side and Fahrenheit stretched in the back. They offer to take some of the Cats with them, but the gang opts to stick together.

Nate's hands hover over the wheel. He's watching himself sweat in the rear-view mirror, feeling like a ghost at an empty seance. He doesn't want to conjure old memories. There's the sticky pleather, his hands burning on the seat belt, voices from the backseat that don't belong to anyone he knows. Nate has never been behind a Highwayman before. He owned an Atomic V-8 all his life, but traded it out for a Blitz when Shaun was born.

He turned the ignition. She shutters at first, but she eventually comes to life. The Cats cheer and break out in a wide circle, giving Nate room to maneuver her out of the garage. She sounds like she's on her last legs but Nate knows it's enough. This car is going to get them across the Commonwealth within a couple hours, even in this state.

Nate eases towards the road. He can hear the gang shouting their awe in the yard. The first jolt forward has Hancock grabbing Nate's arm. His head tilts down and he's shaking like the first time they rode in a vertibird.

Nate doesn't know what suddenly possesses him, but he peels out of the Red Rocket with no warning, grinning like the Devil. Hancock yells. Even Fahrenheit startles and clutches the upholstery.

"What the—" Hancock starts on a curse but ends in laughter. The rush hits him at just the right time. Nate hasn't seen him smile like that unless he's coasting on Day Tripper. It sends a warm feeling through his chest, and he almost forgets he's still driving.

The roads haven't been fixed in two hundred years and they repeatedly try to take Nate off of cliffs or into the wilderness. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other raised to check his Pip-Boy. Hancock is still holding his arm, but Nate doesn't mind.

"I can't believe you did it." Fahrenheit sounds amazed. He truthfully doesn't believe it himself, even as he's braving ninety miles per hour in the wasteland. The Highwayman starts fast, and he has to keep her on a short leash lest he take a wrong turn and they end up in Connecticut.

Hancock laughs again. "You're tellin' me!" He leans out of the window to wave at a passing caravan, holding out his tricorn hat like the American flag on his waist. Nate catches the traders' shocked expressions in the mirror. He would be lying if he said it didn't give him a thrill.

Fahrenheit leans forward. "Where to now, Nate?"

He can only think of one place completely sealed off from the terrors of the Commonwealth. "I'm taking us back home."

* * *

Nate hasn't seen Preston Garvey since he left to chase after Shaun. If Preston is expecting him back, it probably isn't like this.

The Highwayman's tires squeal as they roll over the bridge. Nate doubted that the old bridge wouldn't collapse under the weight of the car, but Hancock (a proven bad influence) insisted they arrive in style. The settlers crowd around the bridge, murmuring their surprise with included finger-pointing. Nate wagers nobody in the Commonwealth has seen a working car.

It's been a long time for Nate since he was in Sanctuary Hills, but it's been earlier for Preston. Of course, Nate doesn't remember the times he visited in the past. He doesn't even remember meeting Preston's group in Concord. But the smile Preston greets him with tickles Nate's memories, wherever they went. At least he can recognize the missing pieces of the puzzle even if the full picture eludes him.

Nate parks the Highwayman in his old driveway. If he is still trying to avoid a nostalgia trip, he fails here; were he a better liar he could convince himself that he's in the past, that the future never happened, and Codsworth is telling him to leave his shoes at the door. Codsworth is telling Nate that dinner will be ready soon. Codsworth is telling him that the missus went out for groceries—

The fantasy ends abruptly, but Codsworth putters out to the lawn. Hancock glances at Nate with a frown when he's greeted with _sir, _with _welcome home, sir, I've done WONDERFUL things with the geraniums in your absence,_ yet he never asks. Nate thinks. He thinks he would tell Hancock if he asked.

They outran the radstorm, but the horizon past Concord is flush with green. Somehow it invokes more trepidation at a greater distance. The settlers turn back with skittish faces. Nate recognizes most of them. He doesn't think anyone new has joined Preston's group since he left.

Nate shares his idea with Preston and the others. The vault isn't very large from what Nate recalls, but he doesn't plan to leave all these folks without shelter. The storm is as much of a mystery to Preston, but he agrees with Nate that taking chances isn't smart. He actually had the same idea to hole up in Vault 111, but they can't seal the door without a Pip-Boy.

Preston excuses himself to talk to the group. Nate waits on the lawn. He eventually retreats to the doorstep and sits down.

Sanctuary Hills is just "Sanctuary" now. He described this to Hancock once in an Old World visage. The green grass has browned, the picket fences torn down. Nate already saw it before, so he doesn't know what right he has to mourn.

Hancock and Fahrenheit talk outside the driveway, but she leaves with the others as Preston begins taking them up the hill. Codsworth nervously teeters around Nate, clearly unsure of what to do with himself. His programming never accounted for anything outside of nanny duties and hosting guests for brunch, so Nate doesn't blame him for so tenderly looking after the geraniums.

He doesn't blame Codsworth for almost apprehending Hancock at the door, either. "Are you a friend of sir's?"

"Sure am."

"Then you absolutely must come inside!"

Nate happens to be accidentally blocking the door, but Codsworth tucks past him and into the kitchen, talking about snacks. Hancock, chuckling, sits next to Nate.

"When you said you were going back home, I didn't think you meant this."

"Yeah. Well. I wasn't planning on coming back here until I had Shaun."

He doubts Shaun would ever come to Sanctuary with him. He has no reason to. This is Nate's home, but it isn't _Shaun's_ home. Shaun's home is in the Institute. The idea of taking a trip to the surface seems to get under Shaun's skin in a putrid way whenever Nate has brought it up.

Conversely, Hancock is so attuned with the filth of the wasteland that the remnants of Sanctuary Hills seem too clean for him. He crosses his ankles beneath him, his arms stuck to his sides. "Are you okay?"

"You're asking me that?" Hancock realizes why Nate is asking. He visibly forces himself to relax. "I just don't want to ruin it for you."

"Ruin what?"

Hancock looks around. "All of it, y'know? Every man's got a past that's important to him. This is yours, and I don't wanna…" _Ruin it._ _Get it dirty. Make you lose anything else._

Nate's eyes are watery again. "Yeah," he croaks.

Hancock foregoes his earlier caution. He pulls Nate near. He's hugging Nate, and Nate hasn't been hugged in a long time. He hasn't been close to someone in a long time. Shaun hesitates to share a couch with his own father. Out here, Hancock feels hotter than a Massachusetts summer.

Nate carefully reciprocates. He feels like a kid at his first dance again, uncertain of where to put his hands, settles them at Hancock's back while they rattle like snakes. If Hancock's rigidness is anything to go by, it's been a long time for him too.

Nate can cry without facing anyone. Hancock won't mind if Nate hides his face in his shoulder, if he cries on his coat. His irreproachable sadness finally settles into a conceivable thing, something he can soothe away.

"You alright, brother?"

Nate frowns. "You won't."

"What's that?"

"You won't ruin anything," Nate clarifies. "Not if you tried."

"If you say so." Despite the tangible uncertainty, he knew Hancock was happier.

Codsworth returns with a tempting offer of Sugar Bombs and champagne. The champagne is old enough to qualify as vinegar. Hancock downs two glasses in a row as Nate sits back and watches. He scrubs his face with a smile.

* * *

Preston Garvey and the Sanctuary group congregate on the hill. There's a tall Vault-Tec billboard casting its menacing shadow. He remembers when they put up that sign: _"Prepare for the future!" _He feels on top of the world.

"So, how do we get in?" Preston looks nervous. They have a better view of the storm from up here and nobody likes what they see.

Nate mans the button to the lift. He orders them to gather on the platform before sending them down. They go in two turns, and Nate is the last one in. The rush of summer heat reminds him of the blast from the bomb, but the cool air below staves off his sudden headache, and his déjà vu.

They brought enough supplies to last them through a winter. Preston insisted on being prepared for anything. They don't know how long the storm will last, but they all feel a lot safer when Nate seals the door.

"Are you sure the storm won't get in?" Marcy Long, a coarse woman, rounds on Nate with a scowl.

"This place kept out the bomb. It can hold through a radstorm." Nate isn't overly eager about Vault 111, but radiation wasn't one of its many issues.

No one else came forward with complaints. It was settled. All that was left was to play the waiting game.


	15. Diamond City Blues

Space went on forever in the vault. Half of the time he felt like he was lost in a maze; the other half, like he was lost in a dream. Time in the vault was inconsequential, ticking along somewhere Hancock couldn't see. It didn't matter if it was day or night, how many days had passed, how many weeks.

He turned the corner. Nate was standing statuesque at the end of the hall. "Knew I'd find you here," he called out.

Nate smiled at Hancock as he approached. He spent as much time avoiding the cryo chambers as he did lingering around them like a guard dog. _Or an angel _, Hancock thought. They established in the first week that this section was off-limits. Nobody asked, because they already knew Nate's story. It seemed everyone in the Commonwealth knew except Nate himself.

Hancock stepped by his side. It would take him years to smooth the rigidness of Nate's shoulders. His hands twitched. "Looking for something?"

"Maybe. I—I don't know." Nate peered into the viewing glass, the reflection of his own frown.

He could see the pods from here. Nate never got too close, never looked at their faces. Learning that the bodies of dead vault dwellers were in those pods had horrified Preston. Nate's horror took place in different ways. The corners of his eyes squinted when he was afraid, like he was looking directly at the sun.

"You gonna go in?"

"No." Nate sighed. "Not yet."

_Yet. _Hancock nodded. "Then let's get out of here. Preston wanted to talk to ya."

He started down the way he came from. Nate wasn't following. Hancock doubled back, about to ask, but Nate spoke first. "Do you have family?"

"Fahrenheit's like family to me." After a pause, he added, "Had a brother, too."

Telling his story felt like carving his name into people. As much as he told was as much as it spread, and he'd have nothing to hide anymore. Hancock wanted to carve something fierce into Nate. It was a kind of sensation he'd been having lately, the sort of thoughts meant to be left simmering in a pot.

"You mentioned him before," Nate recalled.

"My brother? Yeah. We ain't so close anymore."

"What happened?"

Hancock laughed. He shifted his feet in unease, boots scuffing on the ground. "Come on, brother. Don't wanna keep anyone waiting."

Nate finally tore his gaze away from the glass. His eyes were hard when they settled on Hancock. He didn't smile but he had an inch of it on his cheeks, the way he always looked their faces met. Hancock didn't know how to describe that. A quiet happiness, innately existing whenever Hancock was around.

"What about you? You always talk about your son, but..." Hancock cleared his throat. It was a dumb question. If Nate had folks before all this then they were gone now.

But Nate didn't seem to mind. "I think so. It's complicated." _Ain't it always, _Hancock wanted to say, but it seemed that Nate was thinking the same. "Let's see what Preston wants."

"After you," Hancock murmured.

* * *

Preston wasn't alone. Mama Murphy's voice washed down from their makeshift rec room. "I was a riot back in the day! I killed a Deathclaw all by myself, no Power Armor and fancy minigun, just a pipe pistol… and one bullet."

"Bullshit," Hancock called out. He appeared in the hall. "I'll take a lotta guys at their word, Mama, but I ain't believing that. _One _bullet?"

"Those were the days. You gotta aim for their belly, see."

Preston chimed in. "She's right. That's how we killed the last one."

"'Course _you'd _believe it, Garvey. _" _He leaned against the wall, Nate still standing under the doorframe, as if he needed permission to continue.

"Nate would know. He killed one of those things, first time we met." Preston had his guns laid out on an overturned desk, disassembled for cleaning. Laser muskets didn't pull apart in a way Hancock could make sense of—he kept expecting Preston to electrocute himself. This room used to be the kitchen but they pushed the table to one wall and spread out with sheets and pillows. Someone even brought a radio, but Travis didn't come so clear underground.

Nate's expression shifted in his peripheral. He didn't say anything. In his stead, Hancock spoke up. "Talkin' of the devil, brought him here. Just like you asked. Don't get used to ordering me around."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Mayor."

The animosity between them was pretty clear. Nate looked confused. To say the least, Hancock wasn't Preston's biggest fan.

Preston and Nate took their talk out into the hall. Hancock strolled inside, stretching out in a chair beside Mama Murphy. They stopped her wheelchair days ago to keep her from wandering—with tensions up the last thing they needed was her getting into trouble. The fairy lights above her head twinkled like medallions.

She caught him looking. "Like it? Nate built it for me. Not that he remembers. Oh, but he's given these old bones some rest." She stroked along the arm of her chair with fond resignation.

Hancock straightened up. "What do you know about that?"

She smiled at him. Her damned _Sight. _Hancock's been high on just about everything and he's never had visions of the future. Her Sight creeps him out on the days he chooses to believe it exists. The settlers think she's crazy, except for Sturges, who claims that Mama Murphy is the reason they survived out of Quincy.

"Only as much as you do, kid." She reached over and patted his hand. "When are you planning to tell him?"

His breath stopped. "Soon."

"Don't wait too long. All things have their time, Mayor, and you're running out of yours."

He nodded.

She reclined. With eyes so foggy, anyone could mistake her for dead. Hancock had seen that faraway look in Nate many times. It could be that's what her Sight really was—hallucinations that didn't belong. Ghosts in the shadows. It all feels out of his scope of understanding.

She asks for the Jet in his pocket. He usually forgets where he puts his chems, often stumbling on them when he needs a boost, but he's been keeping inventory lately. Despite that, he doesn't hesitate. He was never the stingy type. "Whatever you say, Mama. Just don't tell anyone where you got it from, you feel me?"

She looks like she's reached Nirvana. He wishes he could chase it with her but he wants to be sober when Nate comes back.

They return half an hour later. Hancock startles at tapping on his shoulder: he must have dozed off. Above him, Nate looks troubled. "S'everything alright?"

"We're meeting at the door."

_"The _door? The big one?"

It's the big one. Nate keeps glancing at Mama Murphy, who looks marginally the same, but he's spent enough time around Hancock to know when someone's coasting on Jet. He isn't angry.

Hancock is given the rundown on the way to the door. Preston is worried about food shortages. They have been rationing in the last two months, but the radiation outside hasn't tipped down since. Nobody knows when the storm will pass. Preston doesn't want to wait for things to get out of hand.

The simple mission is to scavenge around Concord for extra supplies. Hancock thinks that Preston is feeling restless and looking for something to do. He can't really argue, though. Running out of food sounds like the first step to total hysteria in the vault.

Preston meets them at the control terminal. They have the entirety of Vault 111 and nobody can find a spare Pip-Boy, so Nate is the only one with door controls. Fahrenheit is there too, clearly ahead of Hancock with the goings-on. She's counting Rad-X and water bottles.

"How's the rads, Preston?"

"It'll be like stepping into the Glowing Sea." He pads down the sweat on his forehead. "Do you think it's this bad all over the Commonwealth?"

"Let's pray it isn't. Fahrenheit, how long can I last out there?"

"Between the two of you? I give it an hour. Tops."

"Woah, hang on." Hancock stepped in. "You're going out there? What, you and Garvey?"

Preston looked affronted at the suggestion in Hancock's tone. "There a problem with that, Mayor?"

"You're damn right there's a problem," Hancock sneered. "I can't trust you to watch his back."

"Where's this coming from?" he frowned.

"You and your Minutemen. Says a lot about a group when there's only one guy in it left." Hancock knew he was being cruel. Sometimes a little cruelty was needed. "'Sides, that's a big waste of our meds. You think an hour's enough to get here and back with enough food for everyone?"

"We have a car," Nate reminded him. Hancock gave him a look, and he sighed and shook his head. "No, Hancock's right. This could be our last chance to get outside. We can't go into this half-cocked."

"I'll come with ya instead." The solution was obvious. Sending Nate, too, could even be considered unnecessary. The only reason Hancock was down here was because he didn't eat much and didn't take up a lot of space.

Nate and Fahrenheit shared a look. It seemed that they already talked about this. Hancock didn't like being left out of a conversation, especially one about himself. "What is it?"

"Boss, we don't know if you going out there is such a good idea."

"Why the hell not?"

"The radiation level is really bad," Nate agreed, leaning over the terminal.

_"Really _bad," Fahrenheit stressed.

"And I'm a ghoul. Did ya forget? Not really an issue here. What, you wanna send the robot instead?"

"Anything I can do to assist, sir!" Codsworth chimed from the back.

Nate's troubled expression grew tenfold. He hunched over the terminal with the weight of the world on his shoulders. "That's what makes ferals into… well, ferals, right? Too much radiation exposure."

He finally realized why they were so worried. He'd said as much to Fahrenheit so long ago he thought she forgot—an old rumor that ghouls went feral if they sat in too much radiation. He didn't know if he believed it himself, but the possibility of losing his mind had always kept him cautious.

Now he didn't have the leisure for paranoia and rumors. "I'll be fine. You got any better ideas?" No one came forward.

Nate should know him well enough that he would insist on helping, even if it put him in danger. Evidently, Nate _did _know, which was why he was so resigned. "Guess not. Alright. Hancock's plan it is."

"Sturges said he fixed up your Power Armor," Preston said. At Nate's confusion: "From Concord? You came around before, asking him to get it fixed. Well, he did it. You'll last longer out there if you can find it."

"Noted." They didn't need long to prepare. Fahrenheit handed Hancock a duffel bag with their anti-radiation supplies. She didn't look worried: she looked impatient, like she already expected them to be back.

The rest retreated back into the maintenance tunnel. Nate plugged his Pip-Boy into the control terminal, and then, with more reluctance, slung it off his arm. Preston barely caught it in time. "Close up after us!"

They ascended in silence. The vault door screeched beneath their feet as Preston sealed them back in. Topside wasn't pretty, but Hancock had been looking at too many fluorescent lights lately to complain.

"Damn. That's…" A couple hours before noon and the sky was already dark. The sun had been completely blotted out. The noises of a rapid ocean swung around them, winds so high that they tricked Hancock's mind into drowning. The roofs were battered down. Trees had fallen in the street.

Nate reached out for Hancock, gripping his shoulder.

"I know." His grip tightened. "We need to keep going."

Hancock felt warm. Like he was stretched under UV lights, like the sun was trapped in his gut, turning pillars of warmth up from his toes. The buzz of radiation was one addiction Hancock always paid for. As pleasant as it was, he was concerned for Nate. Traipse in a radstorm like this and Nate might return to Vault 111 with superpowers.

The Highwayman was still in Nate's driveway, right where they left it. Nate leaned over the cracked windows and tried the ignition. "She's still good!" he called over the hood. Hancock surveyed the block.

"Think that's it?" He pointed across the street where Sturges set up his workshop. A large shadow sat hunkered beneath a Power Armor station.

"Probably. Can you check for me?"

"Sure thing." Hancock didn't feel safe. "Keep that thing running just in case."

He walked over. They didn't have a spare fusion core so their best hope was that Sturges left one in the armor. Kind of like someone leaving their keys in the car or their wallet on the table. Hancock was about to check before coming to the abrupt realization that it _wasn't _Power Armor—the shadow grew eyes and limbs and a pointed smile. It lunged out at him with a snarl.

Something whizzed over his shoulder. The super mutant toppled over Hancock with a bullet down its throat, lending him enough time to back away. Nate's shot didn't kill, unfortunately, but it provided a distraction. The Power Armor was in the place the super mutant had been standing.

Only the torso and helmet were intact. No legs or arms. The frame was in good shape, but there was no fusion core in the back. Hancock didn't know if it was worth it, but Nate promised the lead-lining was enough to protect him from the rads. Unfortunately, they weren't alone: there were more mutants in the neighborhood and the commotion was riling them out.

"Get in! _Get in!" _Hancock ran to the car while Nate was getting into his Power Armor. The keys were still in, so Hancock slid behind the wheel. The Highwayman was a mystery after that. Hancock had seen Nate drive it and tried to copy what he did but nearly ended up in the side of the house.

"Hancock!" Nate was suited up and shooting back mutants. The powered-down frame made him stiff and clumsy. There was no way he was fitting inside the car like that.

"Brother, you gotta get out of that thing!" Rather than listen Nate climbed on top. The whole Highwayman trembled. Hancock worried the roof would cave in, but it held. "What the hell," he muttered.

"Drive!" Sure, Hancock was on the wavelength, but he was practically looking down the mast of an alien ship.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Nate!"

"Uh, did you put it in reverse?"

"And how the hell do I do that?" The Highwayman swerved again, brushing death against the driveway. Hancock didn't even know what he did that time.

"Hancock! Look out the window!" Nate's arm was dangling over the side. He was holding a tin of Mentats. Hancock whistled: how long had Nate been keeping those from him? He ran out of Mentats last week.

"Brother, I could kiss you." Hancock was suddenly on top of the world with a few tablets under his tongue. Cars still didn't make sense to him but he could remember exactly how Nate handled her. He took them out of the driveway with a sharp turn, coming around to a growing mob of mutants.

If he was with anyone else (or on his own, as Hancock had always figured it would be) he would have given up right there. He would have buckled right under the odds and ran away. This was still running, in a way, running _into _danger was far more liberating than running from it. Hancock felt like he could do anything when he was with Nate.

"You'll wanna hold on to something!"

They burned rubber right into the mob. It was like knocking down bowling pins. They were too thick-skinned and clunky to be thrown under, but they toppled against the Highwayman's brunt force. Hancock was almost propelled through the windshield. The mutants tried to give chase when Hancock was already flying down the road, Nate hollering from above.

They bounced over the bridge. Hancock took a left at the Red Rocket and kept going all the way to Concord. Concord looked worse than Sanctuary: they could see the rest of the mutants on the town's outskirts, and one of them had a missile launcher. "Keep going!" Nate yelled. "Now, now, now!" They narrowly escaped from the nest.

He didn't go west very often, and Nate didn't have a map anymore, so they had no choice but to follow the road. He started down towards Cambridge. This wasn't the original plan but the way Hancock saw it, they didn't have a lot of options.

Super mutants. Of course it was super mutants. How did they take the town so fast? It's only been two months.

Nate knocked on the roof. "Should we go to Diamond City?"

"You think it's safe?" Nate didn't answer. Imagining that Diamond City might _not _be safe seemed the worse alternative. "Alright. Diamond City it is. Wanna make any stops on the way?"

"Lexington," Nate suggested. "Shit. How am I gonna tell Preston that Sanctuary's been overrun?"

"Maybe start worrying about how we're gonna get back first." Driving back through Concord wouldn't be half as easy as leaving, and they would risk drawing attention to the vault. "Cross that bridge when we get to it?"

"What bridge?" Against the wind and the voice of the Highwayman, most of Hancock's words got drowned out.

"The metaphorical one! You wanna come down from there?"

"No, I'm good." He retreated back to the roof.

Lexington was a raider haven last time Hancock checked, but the town had filled with ghosts. Cambridge was likewise empty. Nate suggested they check the police station but Hancock vetoed—he didn't want to be out in the open.

In the midst of this storm, Diamond City greeted them like a utopia over the bridge. The stadium lights were bright as beacons in the dark clouds. Nate settled on the trunk, shooting at ghouls that tried to follow. Hancock tried not to think about how there were much more ferals around than usual.

The gate was down. Hancock stopped the car and met Nate at the front. He didn't know what to do—he didn't make it a point to visit Diamond City often. Did they have a back entrance? "What now?"

Nate held down the intercom. "Danny!"

No response. Nate switched on his headlamp for a better view of their situation, but words on the wall sprang out to them: _GONE TO THE VAULT. _Someone had left them in red paint.

It gave Hancock the shivers. "What vault? There's another one?"

"Sure, there's lots of them," Nate muttered.

"Yeah, but close?" Nate was trying to think. Vault 81 was a safe bet, but those vault dwellers were practically hermits. It wasn't likely they would let in a whole city.

"The metro." He looked around. Boston Common was closer to Goodneighbor than to Diamond City. It was a stretch, but he was sure of it all of a sudden. "Vault 114. It's in the subway."

Shapes were moving in the street. Between the apartment buildings: a slow, sluggish crowd with falling faces. Hancock pointed them out. They had never seen so many ferals in one place, too many to count. The stadium lights were drawing them in like moths.

"We need to leave," Hancock warned. Those ghouls looked peaceful now but they could easily outrun Hancock; Nate had no chance in his Power Armor. He walked towards the Highwayman, but Nate had a different idea. "What are you doing?"

"We came all this way for supplies, right?" Nate grunted. "A little help here!" He had his hands under the gate and he was pushing up, trying to pry Diamond City open like a can of Cram. Lucky for him, the Power Armor frame supported more strength than he was normally capable of. The gate started to rise.

"You're lookin' fine from here," Hancock whistled. He guarded Nate's back with his shotgun ready. The ferals hadn't noticed them yet, but that reverie wouldn't last.

Nate got the gate high enough to crawl through. Hancock went first, just as the crowd of ghouls were starting to growl and shamble over. He never saw them walking in crowds before. What had made them so confident?

Nate went after Hancock. Hancock's tricorn hat got knocked off in the rush, but he grabbed it just in time. The gate lowered after his outstretched hand with a shuddering _thud! _Once it closed, they were safe.

The walls rattled, ferals throwing themselves at the space Hancock had been, but they couldn't break in. The Wall had kept out a lot more than ferals before. That didn't mean that the rest of Diamond City was safe, but it was better than the alternative.

"Come on. We better look around." He fell into line with Nate. They climbed the steps to the stands. With the entirety of Diamond City spread before them, it became increasingly plain that they were alone. Nothing moved but dust in the wind.

"Probably for the best," Nate called out. "I don't think the homes are safe." Still looked creepy, though, seeing Diamond City like this. The rattling of the storm made everything spookier. Next time Hancock would make Preston do the supply run on his own.

His boots crunched down as they entered the market. He was trampling over someone's head. He almost screamed, which would have been embarrassing.

Nate put a hand on his shoulder. "Is that Piper?"

Her name was on the papers. Her body was under his boots. She was facedown in the dirt under the roof of _Publick Occurrences_, but Nate recognized her coat. When they flipped her over, they saw her jaw unhinged, made of metal. "That's not Piper."

"Christ. She's a synth?" Nate sounded on the verge of panic. "I should have known. She was acting weird the last time we met—"

"I'm with ya, brother, but we gotta do this some other time." They had been on the surface for well over an hour and had nothing to show for it. Nate nodded and backed away.

Personally, Hancock wouldn't have guessed it himself. She appeared more than normal the first time they met. But the Commonwealth was changing, and they needed to keep up.

If everyone had deserted Diamond City then they wouldn't miss their things. It still felt scummy, and Hancock had strong feelings against stealing from those in need, but all this food would rot anyway. He started filling his duffel bag with whatever they could find in the marketplace.

"So, this vault," Hancock called out. Nate was pilfering the noodle stand. "Does everyone know about it?"

"No," Nate replied. "But Nick would. It's where we met."

That reminded him. Hancock had wanted to go to Diamond City. That had been months ago and circumstances had changed, but it was funny, how they ended up coming here eventually.

"Is it safe?"

"Not really. The back's open. But it's underground. Why? Do you wanna check it out?"

"Do you?"

"All this stuff left out. They probably didn't bring enough food to last." Hancock grinned. He was soft for a spot of selflessness.

The storm was making them uneasy. Hancock couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't alone. They met back in the market once their bags were full. "Wanna try getting back to the car? Or do you wanna stay here for the night? The ferals might thin out if we give it a few hours—"

"Hancock."

"What?"

Nate pointed overhead. Following his direction, Hancock saw it: a silhouette in the mayor's office, watching them above. He wanted to believe it was an illusion, but whoever it was ducked out of the window when they saw Nate pointing.

If it couldn't get worse than that, Hancock heard the gate open.

* * *

**Mama Murphy is more closely related to how she's depicted in her concept art. I think she gives off Fallout 2 vibes in her concept art, it's awesome! As always, any feedback would really make my day :)**


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